


The Only Option

by ChaoticMind (ChloeCasey), Chloe Casey (ChloeCasey)



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Grimm does not want anything to do with god drama, Grimm gets dragged in on it anyway, M/M, Pale King Backstory, Pale King cares about Hallownest, Pale King is a workaholic and does not know how to deal with emotions, Pale King is not a villain, Past Relationships, Polyamorous Gods are a thing, Quirrel is young, Soul Master is a bastard, The Infection, Trying to save an entire civilization from an angry moth god is not easy, gods and magic, past polyamory, takes place before the game, things are complicated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2020-02-29 16:21:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 185,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18781822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChloeCasey/pseuds/ChaoticMind, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChloeCasey/pseuds/Chloe%20Casey
Summary: “...A sleep-induced sickness? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”No cost too great.“It...It..It’s in my head..It..It won’t go away...”No mind to think."You may have seen me put a blade through Her heart, but I was foolish to think She was really gone."No will to break.“The Void bends to no one. It merely makes room. It asks a price, but never asks in words. You must pay in kind."No voice to cry suffering.“...No matter what happens, just know that I will never stop loving you.”“Oh, my Root...I’ve known that since the beginning of time.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Behold, yet another fanfic we made. We put a lot of care into this one especially. We saw a lot of these fanfics featuring the Pale King, so we decided to put in our own two-sense about it. Keep in mind that it’s probably different from yours. 
> 
> With that said, we hope you enjoy!

“M-My King, The Watcher’s Report has come in for you to look at.”

The King blinks out of his musings as the voice rings out through the silence, and he looks over to see the trembling visage of the advisor, holding up a stack of stone tablets, all of them bearing the insignia of his disciple’s mask, before carefully extending a claw to tap the surface of his work desk. “Thank you, Wek. Set them down here.”

“Y-Yes, My King.” The little bug scrambles to do exactly that, placing each tablet down like they’re made of spun glass, giving one last, long, reverent bow before quickly shuffling her way out of the room, visibly flustered to be in the presence of her great God.

He couldn’t help but sigh a little after watching her leave, giving a little shake of his head; sometimes he wished his nobility wouldn’t act so fearfully reverent towards him whenever he walked by. It was almost tiresome to be around those that worshipped the ground he walked on, especially when they acted so very nervous around him and his visage. He lets his gaze stray to the tablets and let out another, heavier sigh, before walking over to his desk and sitting down in his chair, taking a moment to let his tail hang over the arm rest and for all his legs to tuck against his carapace, before he picks up the nearest stone. The tablet was encased in a grey slate, displaying Lurien’s mask, acting as a fail-safe, preventing anyone lacking his divine touch from opening them and reading the contents inside. He idly presses his thumb against the outline of the mask, watching as the slate cracks and crumbles, before dissipating into white fragments of light that dissipate from view. The writing of the tablet glows white against the smooth black surface, and the King begins to read.

“ _Lively Crossroads: Temperature was around 72 degrees, with a mild breeze coming in from up above. A minor confrontation broke out involving two drunken pill bugs outside of a tavern, one of them being arrested while another was sent to the local hospital for minor wounds and cracks to the shell. A family of newcomers were properly settled down into their homes, and repairs had to be made to several street signs after being dented inwards by a group of rowdy adolescents_.”

The King couldn’t help but hum to himself as he read over the transcript, giving it a once over at least two or three more times before finally setting it down, deciding that nothing in the Crossroads needed his attention as of this moment. Nothing needed to be fixed, no crimes needed to be judged, all the subjects seemed relatively happy, going about their daily lives. Perfect.  He picks up the second tablet, repeating the unsealing process and beginning to read once again.

“ _Greenpath Gardens: Temperature around a steady 86°, with a light fog surrounding the Lake Of Unn. Gardeners are hard at work taking care of the various fauna, including the lilies and the tulips. There was a small breach in one of pipes in the north-west side of the Gardens, in which the acid had eaten away at the surface of said pipe, which had rusted due to what seems to be negligence in cleaning duties. No one was greatly injured, however one of the Menderbugs was sent to the City hospital for minor acid burns_.”

The King couldn’t help but curl his lip in a soft sneer, not out of anger or disgust, but simply irritation. The damnable acidic liquid was a rather unavoidable aspect of the Kingdom, and one he couldn’t help but need to work his way around. He had his suspicions that the acid originated in the depths of the Fungal Wastes, where the spores of the mushrooms and the chemicals of the soil somehow mix into the water pouring in from underground streams, creating some kind of foul reaction that causes the water to turn acidic, which in turn begins to leak into other areas of the kingdom. He would’ve sent Menderbugs to attempt to plug up the water, perhaps work on making pipes that would funnel the water into other sections of the kingdom, but he had a suspicion that the mushrooms subsisted entirely off of this bubbling broth, and the Mantises wouldn’t exactly take kindly to their home lands being slowly killed off due to starvation. Best to not ruin the treaty, especially one that they worked so hard to forge.

He finally lets out a sigh upon re-reading the last section, before making a mental note to have one of his advisors send a message to the managers of the Gardens; he wanted to make sure that they covered the cost of the injured bug’s medical bill, as well as the broken pipe, if it wasn’t already fixed. The fact that the Report didn’t say was almost unusual. He picks up yet another tablet, but pauses in opening it, looking up from his work to tap a claw against his desk in idle thought before simply nodding to himself in silent agreement. He picks up a hand-held bell off of the surface of his desk, ringing it briskly, at least three times, and there was a small bit of silence before the soft fluttering of wings is heard, and two bright white eyes peek out from beneath a spherical shell. The King merely glances back to his work and undoes the next seal, speaking loud enough so that his creation would hear him. “Go down to the kitchens and bring me my meal.”

The creature doesn’t say a word, and merely disappears out of sight. The King starts to read once more.

“ _City Of Tears: Temperature around 67° degrees, no winds, and a steady rain throughout the day, week, month, etc. Soldiers had to apprehend a thief that tried to mug one of the citizens in one of the many back alleys of the city, and he is now being held in the capital’s prison. One of the houses over in the Elevated District is in dire need of repairs due to water damage, and several doctors had been seen wandering the City making house calls due to an undetermined sickness, seeming to affect the old and the young_.”

That last part immediately grabs the King’s attention, and his claws stiffen. Illnesses were unfortunately common from within the capital’s depths; constant, endless rainfalls tend to soak through even the toughest of metal plating or expensive cloth, so doctors and medical professionals were always busy tackling the common cold and such. Nothing too out of the usual in that regard, but sick subjects wasn’t exactly something he wanted, nor was it something he needed, especially if children were getting ill, as well as the fact that the illness in question had yet to be properly identified. The water damage to that one building was concerning as well, especially since most of them were crafted from stone and glass. Perhaps he would have to have his architects try to figure out a way to more appropriately funnel the rain, to make it so that it wouldn’t lead to such inconvenient problems.

There was also Lurien himself. He had read the Reports for as long as he had bestowed him the title of Watcher, and they were usually much more detailed than this. Much more thorough. It was strange, though it didn’t exactly concern him; he knew Lurien better than anyone, and he knew that the oddity of a bug happened to be somewhat of a workaholic, the type that tended to not rest all that much, and when there is no rest, work tends to get sloppy. Perhaps he ought to pay him a visit, just to see how he’s doing. After all, it’s high time he steps out of the Palace grounds, at least for a little while. Being cooped up for too long was something he could never really tolerate, as vexing as it was, but he couldn’t blame himself for his little quirk; it was nothing more than a primal instinct from his long dead days.

He sees a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye and looks over to see the little creature floating back in again, its beady white eyes narrowing behind its shell, tendrils of black slipping out of the seams, holding up a plate of roasted meat and cooked vegetables, as well as a goblet of sparkling wine. He reaches out to take the platter from the creature, nodding to it before moving to set his dinner on the desk, next to the rest of his unopened Reports. He speaks, barely with any thought in mind, his voice quiet and unassuming. “Thank you.”  

The little Wingsmould floats there, no indication that it heard anything at all, before moving to float away, the tendrils of black slipping back into its core, like they were never there to begin with.

 

••••

 

A week passes in the kingdom’s depths, slow and steady, before the King finally realizes that something is wrong. He began to see it in the Reports as the days went by, small, almost inconsequential details, ones that slipped by his grasp and grew to become troublesome problems.

“ _A Doctor from the City came to the Crossroads to visit a sick child, one who had been displaying several odd symptoms, including sleep deprivation_.”

“ _A bug fell asleep on one of the benches in the Western side of the Garden and began to display what seemed to be sleeping fits. When he was woken up, he seemed delirious, as if not knowing where he was_.”

“ _There was a mining accident over in the Crystal Caverns, one that resulted in the hospitalization of at least 2 miners. A third had sleep-walked and activated a dormant machine, one that the previously mentioned workers had been relaxing on taking their lunch break, and as a result, were nearly crushed under the weight of the pistons. The third bug has been taken into custody at the City prison. The injured bugs are in critical condition_.”

That last Report was enough to have him finally decide to get himself involved; it was troublesome enough that this odd phenomenon was somehow occurring amongst the local populace, but the sheer fact it was impacting the focus and the minds of his workers had the potential to be dangerous, especially considering they were responsible for the cogs of the kingdom running smoothly. He could not afford to have this unforeseen affliction getting in the way of his work, the work of the people, and he needed to put a stop to it. Of course, in order to learn how to do such a thing, he first had to learn of this sickness, what it was, and how it worked, how it affected the body of those that were infected, and he needed to learn of it quickly, in order to avoid the potential of this sickness spreading to the populace.

It was his duty as King to analyze and eliminate any possible threats to his kingdom, to his people, and it was a duty that he would see through.

“Send a message to Lurien and Lady Monomon at once. Tell them I wish to discuss a matter of great importance.”

 

••••

 

He lets out a sigh, soft and subtle, as he walks along the Pathways to the Archives, an ocean of fog flowing around his feet, his gait regal and refined, just as it always has been, his tail idly twitching beneath his robes. The atmosphere was thick, heavy, and though the path was made of stone, there was evidence of nature growing all across it, patches of dew and moss that felt cold, soft beneath his feet. Bubbles grew out from the flora-laden walls, the ceilings, no doubt due to strange abnormalities of the atmospheric conditions that occurred this deep underground, and he couldn’t help but crane his head up ever so slightly to gaze at a particular one, thicker than the other ones he’s seen, less transparent, more plump, almost...spongy looking in texture, as if there some form of flesh contained within. Perhaps the bubbles were some kind of odd fungus that wrapped its prey up in its own mass to absorb the creature’s organic structure into its own? He wouldn’t put it past Monomon to cultivate such strange creatures, not with her and her scientific wiles. 

As if even thinking of its gracious and ambitious mistress was enough to rouse it, the entrance to the Archives was revealed to him, a golden archway of light overrun with the moss and lichen of the canyon, looking as if it hadn’t been touched with a gardener’s shear or trowel in ages, and knowing Monomon, that very well could be the case. He casts one more glance behind him, to check if the equipment was secure, and that his guards from the City were still present, before turning to make his way into the glamorous bronze building, the bubbling and frothing of deadly acid so vigorous that he could feel the vibrations beneath his feet. Even as he walked amongst the narrow tunnel of the Archives’s entrance, he could hear distant conversation, the tone loud, one sounding much more irritated than the other, and he couldn’t help but let out a sigh and shake his head. Right from the start of his reign those two always seemed to be at each other’s throats, and it seemed that would never change. In a way, it was amusing, heavily so, (were circumstances different, he gladly would’ve sat back to watch) but it still didn’t change the fact that now was not the time for a petty squabble. He could begin to make out the words now, slowly walking closer, seeing the dark figures of his two closest disciples illuminated from the glow of the acidic pipes.

“And you’re absolutely _certain_ that your experiments _won’t_ end up causing any unnecessary deaths?”

“Oh don’t be silly! Whatever gave you such an outlandish idea? Like my precious creations could even hurt a lumafly.”

“Are you not aware that I see your so-called progress on these...things, and how they have a tendency to literally _explode_?”

“Oh, pfft! How cares about a little rattling of the pipes or two?”

“I do! And you should too! I know you have an odd tendency to bathe in this horrid acid, but I’ll have you know that most bugs _die_  when coming into contact with it! And those are just the lucky ones!”

“...Ok, I will admit that there are a few...quirks, to the Ooma’s designs...”

“Quirks is putting it lightly, Monomon. Very lightly.”

“It’s nothing I can’t figure out. It’s probably an instability in their inner cores, some type of chemical reaction or rapid increase in pressure that causes it to react so violently.”

“I certainly hope you’re right. I wouldn’t want to send in a Report to the King about how the entire Canyon is flooding with acid because your Archives got blown up.” 

The King finally reaches the end of the tunnel, walking into the main room, one of his hands slipping free from his cloak to lift to his mouth, letting out a soft clearing of the throat, the guards behind him immediately freezing to a stop and moving to position themselves on either side of the doorway. “Ehem. If you don’t mind, I’d like to bring this conversation to a different topic.”

Both Monomon and Lurien blink upon seeing their ruler, the former half-submerged in a vat of acid, the rim of the tank level with that of the floor, her upper tendrils resting against it, while the latter was standing at least a few feet away, his robes sparkling with that of gemstones and glamour, clearly having adopted the look from the nobles of the City. Monomon was the first one of the two to speak, her mask shifting into that of a grin, one of her tendrils lifting up to give the King a soft pat to the forehead, the sensation warm, almost slimy, with the slightest hint of an electric tingle. “Oh, terribly sorry, King. I just got a wee bit distracted is all while we were waiting for you to arrive. My little creations have been coming along nicely, and I suspect that by the end of the year, this Canyon could be a living electrical network!”

“You mean living time bombs.” Lurien shakes his head, his mask remaining as passive as always.

King merely lifts a hand to take Monomon’s tendril in his claws, giving it a soft squeeze before letting go. “That is pleasant to hear, Monomon, though it is best that we end that topic as of right now. Currently, as far as I know, the unexplained sickness has begun to build within the populace of the kingdom, and I need to see to it that I cure it.” His gaze shifts to that of Lurien. “Tell me, are there any new cases in any of the sections of the kingdom?”

His gaze peers into that of the King for a moment before he tilts his head up, and the small hole that’s been cut into the polished white surface of the mask begins to glow, the faint whispers of divinity beginning to fill the air. It was a sight that was both familiar and yet also not, and he felt the slightest of tugs within his being as Lurien’s blessing began to bloom to life once more. He merely watches, the dim memories of bestowing the blessing upon his second disciple, of flooding his body with his own divinity, his piercing bright light, flickering at the back of the King’s mind like a dying ember. Those times were somehow simpler, in all of it’s endless chaos, though they were days the King did not wish to revisit.

Finally, Lurien’s head lowers, and his expression somehow gains a more rigid look despite the mask never once shifting or changing. “...Two more cases as we speak, in the Crossroads. Two kids, one 10 years old, the other one 6.”

The King’s hands clench, his knuckles growing tight, before he turns to face the guards, giving them a stern nod. They silently drag forth a golden box in front of the two advisors, plated on all sides, marked with a large key hole, and place the key in the King’s now outstretched hand, before exiting the building in its entirety, never once looking back. Monomon went still, her mask tilting never so slightly, her tendrils curling in on themselves slowly, her voice slightly more quiet than usual. “..So, we’re starting off with that method, are we?”

The King merely moves to place the key in the lock. “No. This is merely a check-up; the doctors in the City are only experienced with minor illnesses or a cracked shell. They won’t know how to deal with this new sickness, not unless the information on how to do so is sought out and spread. And the only way to do that, is to examine an infected individual.”

He turns the key, swiftly, and the plating falls away with a loud clatter to reveal a beetle, no cloth to be seen on his body, his limbs bound in white chains, securing his arms behind his back, rendering him incapable of struggling. The bug didn’t make a single noise, and merely looked downwards, his expression looking vacant, with just the sheer vestiges of guilt dwelling within his eyes. Monomon slowly raises herself up on her tendrils, the tank she was submerged in rippling and sloshing, waves of acid spilling down the sides of the metal to drop to the floor, though she paid no mind to it. Instead, she merely lowered her mask closer to the face of the bug, and she went silent for a few moments. “..This bug _is_ infected, is he?”

The King watches, his own expression growing steely, almost cold. “Indeed. He worked in the Upper Sector of the Mines, when he had fallen asleep. Apparently, in his sleep, he activated a machine that ended up nearly killing two of his coworkers.” 

“...A sleep-induced sickness? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“Neither have I. And that’s what troubles me.“

Lurien slowly walks forward as well, bending down to stare the bug in the face, his expression unreadable beneath his mask. “...So, you called the both of us here to examine this fellow?” 

“Essentially, yes.”

“Do we have any limits on what exactly we can do?” 

The King lets out a sigh, lifting a hand to rub at his forehead, swearing he could feel a headache about to come on. “You cannot kill him, nor can you perform any acts towards his body that requires cutting him open.”

“But taking a look at all of the inner organs would be a viable way to examine how this virus operates.”

“For once, Lurien and I agree.” Monomon leans back to glance between the two of them, and when the King gives her a sharp glance, her mask twists into that of a sheepish look. “..From a scientific standpoint, it would make more sense. The flesh is going to show wear and tear from fending off the sickness, especially if it’s theoretically induced by sleeping.”

The King’s headache grows, and he can’t help but let out a groan, shaking his head in exasperation. “....You understand that cutting open my subjects is the exact opposite of protecting them, yes?”

“Of course, but we also understand that just looking him over from the outside won’t do much good.” Lurien shifts, and his hand lifts free from his robes to put a hand on King’s shoulder. “This might be the only way we can go about things.”

“You haven’t even tried yet.” The King’s hand comes up to rest upon his Watcher’s, but his gaze is unwavering.

“We don’t need to try, King. That’s the thing.”

Before the King can reply, the bug lifts his head to gaze at his mighty ruler, and shakes his head. “...I...I don’t want to hurt someone again.”

All three of them turn their heads to glance at the forlorn man, and Monomon is the first to speak. “..You think it can happen again? Your... sleep walking?”

The bug nods, softly. “I know it will. It…It’s been happening for a while. My... My sleep, I mean. It... It’s been weird..”

“How so?” The King steps forward, eyes narrowing in thought, in suspicion.

The bug visibly flinches away, a faint twitch of involuntary reflex, and his eyes show of both fear and awe all at once, and his voice, already hoarse and soft, starts to crack. “I...W-Well, the thing is...I never dreamt. Never had a dream once in my life. Just...I j-just fall asleep and wake up. But, at least a week ago, m-maybe two, I started dreaming. D-Dreaming of this...I-I don’t even know what it is...All I know is that it’s bright and hot and...and _strong_ and...” He starts to shake, and his eyes start to fog over. “It...It..It’s in my head..It..It won’t go away...”

The King couldn’t help but stare for a moment at this, and a moment was already too long. He feels his knuckles clench under his robes, his tail quiver, and he straightens his spine, taking one deep breath, two, before finally speaking once more. “...Are you sure you want this? This can likely mean your death. Surely dreams aren’t worth that of death.”

The bug’s eyes snap back into focus after at least a moment or two of breathing, and he shakes his head, rapidly. “No, no, I want this. Do it. Kill me, tear me open, do anything you want. If it means ridding me of these dreams, of that horrible..That horrible...” He shudders, a full-body quaking that leaves the chains rattling like an unsteady pebble that’s about to fall from the lip of a cliff, his voice rising in volume, in desperation. “Do it, for the good of the King, for the good of Hallownest, do it! If this is an illness, I...I need you to find it! Find it and kill it! Before it gets the chance to hurt anyone else!”

The King finds himself unable to say a word, turning his head to glance at both of his disciples, to judge their reactions. Monomon was looking the slightest bit disturbed under her mask, her tendrils tensing and clenching in a nervous, almost skittish manner, while Lurien simply watched the whole exchange, his face forever covered within the depths of his mask, his head shifting to stare into his  King’s eyes. He slowly nods, as does Monomon, and no words are spoken. None needed to be. The King tried to keep his gait as impeccable as it always was, even as he heard Monomon call for her assistant, even as Lurien began to question the Teacher where she kept her tools. He never looked back.

When he was sure that no eyes were watching him, no eyes were perceiving him, he stumbled, sagging against the wall, as if he had just been struck by a fatal blow, lifting his hands to his face to see that they were shaking, shaking and trembling like a gods-damned child. He had just watched a bug, teetering on the scalpel’s edge of his own sanity, cry and beg for death, to be cut open and have his guts ripped out of his bleeding husk. Something within that sickness had contorted his mind, his thoughts, his very being until death seemed like a blessing, until he found himself staring into the figurative abyss and jumped head first into it. 

And all he, the King, could do was sit there and watch. Sit there and let it happen. That bug, insane as he was, in essence, gave his life for him. For him and the glory of his kingdom. And all he did was walk away. 

His hands clench.

...No. No, he could not let this cloud him. Cloud his mind. It was just...It was just one simple procedure. One bug. One sacrifice, for the sake of untold lives saved. That infected body had chosen his fate, chosen to die, chosen to sacrifice. He could do nothing to change that, and as his duty as King, he needed to focus his mind to the future. He could not show weakness. This was all it was. A momentary bout of weakness. A momentary cost.

His claws clenched so hard he could feel the soft shell of his palms creak, before he finally took a deep breath, and his emotions fell, cast down by unseen blades. Then he began to walk once more.

Not even a day later, he had received a Report from his Watcher, one that he had left alone for hours before finally opening.

“ _The Miner was examined with a simple glance over at first, and nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary. He looked and seemed completely healthy, aside from a slight fatigued look to the carapace beneath his eyes, and his jittery, skittish nature. Monomon’s assistant first took blood in an effort to see if there was any visible contamination, any oddities, and when, finally, the operation was made. His organs were worn, slightly so, as if put under significant stress, but aside from that, there was nothing. The sickness, as far as we know, is completely invisible to our eyes. My only question to you, My King, is this._

 _What do we do_?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy this next chapter! We worked super hard on it! Be sure to leave comments telling me what you think! We would really appreciate it!

Weeks went by. 

Messages were spread by his advisors, all throughout the kingdom, as fast as they could go, under his direct orders. Stone tablets, precious scrolls, guards and doctors and priests all sent to patrol the streets of every populated section, all of them bellowing at the top of their lungs that a sickness was beginning to appear, and that their King was currently fighting against the unexpected scourge, that it was important that they fight as best as they could as well.

“ _ The sickness seems to have no proper starting point or origin, as several bugs in the City have already been displaying signs of it’s beginning stages, stumbling through the day, visibly sleep-deprived, visibly disorientated, and speaking of their dreams. The Soul Soother and his disciples have been keen on turning their monastery into a hospital, a place of quarantine, in hopes of locating the sickness in bugs with these symptoms. No breakthroughs have been made _ .”

Posters and warning signs were nailed to every lamppost, signs propped in every Stag Station, and the most daring of Royal Guards were willing to brave the depths of the Deepnest and the harrowing smog of the Fungal Wastes, all in hopes of alerting the outside tribes to the perilous threat that was beginning to emerge over the horizon.

“ _ The Crossguards over in the surface area of the Kingdom had to forcefully escort several newcomers into the local prison, due to a sudden, violent attack on an elderly firefly that left him dead. Witnesses have said that the man was merely sitting on a bench, eating his food, when the youngest of the newcomers had stabbed him in the throat from behind with a dagger, with seemingly no reason _ .”

He did everything he could to prepare the people for what was surely the inevitable, everything that he could possibly think of doing within the confines of his Palace.

“ _ The Archives has been turned into a makeshift hospital as of late, doctors, guards, and families alike all rushing the sick to our doors, in hopes of aiding in the research. Monomon and I have been studying every case we come across, in hopes of finding an outlier or some form of a sign of the cause. Many patients have had to be tied down to their beds, on account of refusal to sleep or rest, with some beginning to exhibit signs of almost feral aggression. Several guards have been injured because of this, and I have no doubt there will be more. _ ”

It still made his claws quiver when the Reports began to come in, and several times he had to stop himself from crushing them into nothing more than gravel.

The tablet finds itself clattering to the desk with little care or fanfare, and the King’s claws glide up to rub his eyes, his forehead, his emotions brewing and boiling within his flesh like the acid that fed the mushrooms amongst the Wastes. He had to take several breaths in order to calm the rage and panic that was flooding his frame, his holy soul, the rage that so desperately wanted him to flip his desk, to scream to the heavens and ask the fates why he was being forced under such torturous slights. People were out there, his people, sick, sick and panicked and dying, driven to a feral haze, to a mindless wishing for death, and he was doing nothing, nothing,  _ NOTHING- _ !

The soft clearing of a throat was enough to get him to realize that he was digging his fingers into the shell of his forehead, and he quickly lifts his head up to see the quivering form of Wek, the smallest and youngest of his grand advisors, clutching another stone tablet in her small little hand, her eyes wide and visibly terrified. Her voice was quiet, meek, and slightly reverent, just as it had always been, her eyes the slightest bit fatigued. “..M..My King...I..I am so sorry, but..I f-forgot to deliver a Report. This sh-should be the last one.”

The sight of her trembling like he was going to rip her apart was enough to make his quelling anger vanish into mist, and he lets out a soft sigh, extending his hand out to her, feeling the slight cracks in his shell already beginning to heal. “It’s quite alright, Wek...Hand it over, please.”

“Y-Yes, My King.” She quickly shuffles her way towards the desk, and just as the tablet rests in his palm, her expression seems to shift into that of concern, her eyes sharpening ever so slightly. “..My King, are you unwell? Do you wish for me to call for your Lady?”

The question gets him to blink, a tad shocked, but he finds himself shaking his head, softly. “No, no, I am fine. There is no need to summon my Queen; I am just...” He catches himself, realizing who exactly he’s talking to, and tightens his grip on the tablet, starting to draw back his hand. “Why don’t you go and leave me to my work, Wek? I’m sure there is still plenty to do in the Palace.”

He didn’t even have the chance to process what had happened when the cold metal of a knife had plunged itself into the meat of his throat. Blood flooded his windpipe, trailed down his chin like the cold, icy fingers of death. His body was flat against the ground, his chair knocked over, and Wek was on top of him, her little fingers wrapped tight around the handle of the butcher knife that was now slowly pushing it’s way deeper through his flesh, dragging down, down, down. He found his hands clutching her neck, but he could not bring himself to snap it, for his gaze, trembling with the agony he was undergoing, was fixated on the orange glow that was overtaking her eyes.

Orange...Orange glow...

It all clicked into place, and Wek opened her mouth to speak, but the voice that came out was not of her own.

“ **GREETINGS, WRYM. IT HAS BEEN A LONG WHILE** .”

The King felt his entire body grow cold, his blood, slowly pooling beneath his head, feeling as if it had turned to ice. Wek’s grin grew sickly sweet, her dead, lifeless eyes bloodshot with clementine veins.

“ **I CAN FEEL YOUR HORROR, YOUR FEAR, VILE WRYM, AND IT IS BEYOND COMPARISON. IT IS MUSIC TO MY EARS, AND IT IS AS SWEET AS NECTAR. TO KNOW THAT YOUR REIGN WILL SOON FALL BY MY HAND, MY MACHINATIONS. YOUR SUBJECTS WILL BECOME MY OWN, MINE FOREVER, MINE TO MOLD WITHIN MY BEAUTIFUL LIGHT** .”

His hands twitch around her neck, slowly, painfully, but yet Her voice, Her despicable, damnable voice, keeps coming.

“ **THERE IS NO RUNNING. THERE IS NO ESCAPE. NONE CAN STOP MY CRUSADE, NONE CAN FLEE FROM MY SALVATION. MY BODY MAY BE GONE, SLAIN LIKE A BEAST BY YOUR BLADE, BUT MY LIGHT IS ETERNAL. MY LIGHT CANNOT BE EVADED, FOR IT EXISTS INSIDE ALL. MY LIGHT WILL RISE, AND YOU, FOUL WRYM, WILL WITHER AND PERISH BENEATH IT** .”

He tried to speak, tried to gather up all the strength he could to force the words to form on his tongue, but none came. Dizzying memories, soft and blurry, but undeniably there, crept in from the back of his mind. Of a world rendered blank, monotonous, unchanging, all under the guise of peace and glory, bugs and beasts alike enslaved under a permanent, unending glow from the heavens, from the white, glimmering eyes of their omnipresent goddess. Only precious few, Her own creations, were granted any semblance of sapience or cognitive thought, while the rest was left to become nothing more than slaves, automatons, mindless servants to Her indomitable will.

His hands tighten around Wek’s throat, harder, beginning to feel the shell crack and crumble beneath, blood washing over his claws, just as the knife, still buried to the hilt, begins to sink into the flesh of his chest. The little bug, a puppet to Her whims, leans forwards with her other hand to cup his cheek, her grin lifeless, empty, Her voice still coming even as blood gushes down her white robes.

“ **YOUR PRECIOUS KINGDOM WILL BE NO MORE. IT WILL BE MINE ONCE AGAIN. I WILL DESTROY EVERYTHING. YOUR RULE WILL BE FORGOTTEN AND LEFT TO ROT. I WILL RUIN YOU, YOUR LEGACY, AND EVERYONE THAT YOU HOLD DEAR.  EVEN YOUR PRECIOUS ROOT** .”

The anger and despair that shot through his body had not been felt for a long time. It felt like a raging, burning inferno, one that filled his veins and swamped his mind in a frenzy of thoughtless animosity. He did the first thing he could think of. He opened his mouth.

By the time he finally collapsed on the ground, panting and gasping, his voice little more than a raspy, bubbling gurgle as his throat slowly began to seal up, all that was left of Wek was a pile of gore-soaked robes and what vaguely resembled that of her limbs. He could still feel the knife buried within him, it’s blade little more than a cold, sharp presence in his flesh, and he found his hands tugging it free before he realized he had even grabbed onto it, letting it drop to the floor with a light clatter. His mouth sealed back into place, the thundering of his insides pounding in his head with the ferocity of a drum, and it’s only when he blinked did he realize that there were tears in his eyes. Actual tears, pooling, close to running down his cheeks. He quickly lifted his claws towards his face, but saw the gore, saw the blood, and jerked away.

It’s only when he turned his head to the entrance did he realize he was not alone. One of the Kingsmould’s, in their bright and shining armor, their vicious blades always held tight in their hands, stood there, silent, straight, it’s cold, white eyes staring down at him with a lifeless gaze. He stared back, his eyes wide, his body still shaken, his throat slowly beginning to close, to become anew with flesh and shell. Had it...Had it watched him? Had it watched him devour one of his advisors? His smallest and youngest? Was it there the entire time, watching as She carved away at his neck?

No...No, that was impossible. It would’ve surged forward to strike, to protect it’s creator. It must’ve just arrived. Which meant it saw him. Saw what he did. 

He slowly stood, slowly, the harshness of his breathing and the wild fear in his eyes fading away as he did so. His hands, his gore-soaked claws clenching hard, and he slowly walks his way towards his creation, leaving a long, bloody streak across the floor as he did so, not looking back at what was left of Wek.He stood inches away from the Mould, bloodied and stone-cold, and it didn’t so much as twitch.

He gazed into it’s eyes, it’s piercing, white eyes, and all he saw was the darkness of the Abyss staring back.

He opened his mouth to speak, but the sounds of incoming footsteps was enough to shock him out of his state, and he steps back as the Mould steps aside to let the nobles through, at least three of them, all of them looking so very terrified, worried,  _ concerned _ .

“M-My King! Are you alright?! W-We heard shouting and-and we...W-What happened?”

“You’re hurt! Yo-You’re  _ bleeding _ !”

“W-Where’s Wek? She was in here with-“

His hands clenched, clenched so hard he swore his shell was about to crack, his eye twitching sharply, and he turned, marching back over to what was left of the miserable corpse and picked up the bloodied, torn robes, lifting it up for all of them to see.

“Wek...was a traitor. Nothing more, nothing less.” He then drops the cloth, and then starts to walk past the crowded, trembling advisors, his gaze growing steely once more. “Fetch me new clothing. Send a new message out to all of Hallownest and all of it’s guards: if you see any individual with an orange glow in their eyes, detain them and take them to Monomon. Kill them if you have to. Once they have the orange glow, they are no longer themselves. They are the plague. They will attack anyone, and anything within their reach.”

In a natural instinct, the retainers take a step back from the corpse, unknowingly blocking the entrance as their hands are held up, as if it would serve to keep them safe. He can't hear them very well. He doesn't  _ want _ to hear them. The King found himself stopping right in his tracks, swearing he could feel his legs shaking. His blood was roaring, dripping down his carapace, his skin felt clammy, and everything felt like it was spinning, tilting, ever so slowly, so slowly that he could barely recognize it was happening at all.

“But, My King-“

“Please, you-you are injured-“

“Was Wek infected-“

“You have to calm down-“

The King feels his blood come to a boiling point. His eyes flash a brilliant white, and his wings flare outward, poised, his posture straight, ridged. His voice is a chilling hiss, one that seems to echo despite being as quiet as the mist. “Are you all ignoring my orders?”

The retainers all go silent, their hands stilling, their voices dying, before they begin bowing, uttering soft apologies, before walking out of the room, slowly.

The King has to clutch his wrist in his hand to stop it from shaking, and he forces himself to take a breath, two, but it only serves to make him shake harder. The scent of blood was too strong.

 

••••

His Lady stared down at him with those same shimmering blue eyes that have stared down at him for over a century, and this had to be the first time he saw a flash of true, genuine fear. Her tendrils tightened ever so slightly, the straining sound of the muscles constricting and coiling beneath her flesh almost enough to make him wince, and after a brief pause, she finally spoke, her head turning to watch him as he restlessly paced back and forth across the garden floor. “..So...The Radiance has returned.”

“Yes..I saw it with my own eyes. She had taken over one of my advisors. Used her body as a means to get close and attack. I looked into that bug’s eyes, and all I saw was the Light.” He still has to force himself to clench his fingers so that they stop shaking, his voice slightly rougher, hoarse, the scar lining the column of his throat still yet to fade.

“How? How is that possible? You killed Her. I know you did, I saw you do it.”

“Yes, you may have seen me put a blade through Her heart, but I was foolish to think She was really gone. I see now that in my youth, I was too hasty to focus on the true threat.“

The Lady remains silent for a moment, her head bowed downward, eyes narrowed in deep thought. “..This plague..This infection...It is Her work?”

The King nods, slowly, and he finds himself placing a hand on the wall closest to him, his head bowed, his organs feeling cold, hollow, jittery in a way that he had not felt for a long, long time. His blood felt like slush in his veins, his core wobbled and shook like a leaf before it was about to fall, and he  _ hated _ it. Hated the  _ weakness _ , the  _ fear _ , how he wished to have it quelled so he could silence the clamoring panic within his head. Now was not the time to break, now was the time to  _ think _ .

He takes a deep breath, once, twice, before he lifts his head once more. “..I need to find a way to kill Her once more.”

“My Wrym..How can you do such a thing? She is in a place you cannot reach. An endless dream that cannot be found.”

“I don’t know how....But all I know is that I have to think of something.” His claws clench shut, and he feels his wings bristle. “I’ve sacrificed so much for this kingdom already, made others sacrifice themselves in my name, and to simply turn tail and run now, let that vile demoness have Her victory and turn my land into a stagnant husk...” He lifts his head, and his gaze grows steely. “I will  _ not _ let that happen. Not at any cost. There is no cost too great for Hallownest. Not one.”

His Queen’s eyes are wide, though the emotions behind it he could not place, and after a long moment of silence, she nods, slowly, and her hand, draped in her own glorious robes, reaches out to touch his cheek. Their foreheads rest together, and the King finds himself letting out his breath, a breath he didn’t know he was holding, feeling the calming, soothing waves of her magic clashing with his own, mixing within his chest, his wings, his claws. With every touch, he always felt at peace, and that was a gift in which nothing could compare.

Her voice was little more than a soft whisper. “...No matter what happens, just know that I will never stop loving you.”

His own voice is the same way. “Oh, my Root...I’ve known that since the beginning of time..”

Tendrils wrap around him, enfold him, and he in turn wraps his arms around her neck. It’s only when he sees movement in the corner of his eye does he yank himself away from her comforting embrace, his heart leaping into his throat, preparing to see a blade or a flash of orange, only for his gaze to settle upon another Kingsmould, clutching what appears to be a silken scroll, not a stone tablet, in their armored hand.

He stares for what feels like a small eternity, waiting for his panic to subside, for his organs to steady in their endless crusade to twist themselves into knots, before falling into his normal pose, letting out a small huff as his fear falls into irritation. He quickly walks over to the awaiting soldier, and holds out his hand. Nothing happens. His brow furrows in further irritation, and he moves to grab it from the automaton’s clutches. Its’ fingers don’t loosen, and when he tugs again, he hears the faint sound of the silk tearing.

The King lets a curse slip past his lips, and a growl makes his claws tremble as he quickly lets go of the paper. “Dammit! You blasted hunk of metal! Give me it!”

The Kingdmould’s hand wordlessly raises up, and it’s fingers unfurl to allow him to grab the scroll, having a slight tear down the middle. The King couldn’t help but stare for a moment, before he growls again and snatches it out of its’ hand, turning away to untie the ribbon and unfurl the parchment. “Get out of my sight.”

The Kingsmould immediately turns to begin walking away, it’s footsteps carrying a hollow clanking sound as it goes, silent and completely unmoving.

He begins to read from the parchment, his brow furrowing softly as he recognizes the handiwork. It was Lurien’s writing.

“ _ My King, I have urgent news, and it simply cannot wait. Me and Monomon are swarmed with the sick, and I had no time to make a proper Report. People are starting to die. They’re beginning to change, change in ways I cannot even fathom. Several patients have already begun to attack anyone around them before the guards stepped in to put them down. I’m sure you’ve seen it too, put the pieces together as well as I did. My King, we’re trying everything we can, but I must decree that no science can possibly eradicate this illness. So I ask that you use a different method _ .”

The King feels himself staring down at the words, staring hard, but he can’t find himself to read the words, read them for what they truly mean. His kingdom was collapsing with every second wasted, every day passed, and he had nothing to offer, no calming comfort to soothe the fears of the public, no strict orders to give the guards so that he could ensure everyone’s safety. It was enough to make his organs shrivel with a harsh chill, as if his body had been turned to sheer ice.

He dimly hears his love’s voice, and he has to bring himself to answer, his head lifting to face her concerned expression. “..What did you say, My Root?”

She stares back at him, her eyes holding more worry that he had ever seen her wear. “..What does it say?”

He glances back down at the silk scroll, before simply rolling it back up. “...Nothing. It said nothing. Just another Report from Lurien.”

“Oh… Isn’t he working with Monomon?”

“Indeed.”

“So it couldn’t have been nothing.”

He lets out a heavy sigh, and starts to resume his pacing, still clutching the scroll in his claws, the sharp wrinkling of the paper ringing in his ears. “It said nothing. Not anything important. Just spouting off all the drivel I already know. It gave me nothing to go off of, nothing to look towards. That’s all I have right now.  _ Nothing _ .”

If she replied, he did not hear it, for the thundering of his own thoughts drowned it out. His mind seemed to be circling, over and over, reciting like an endless circle that there was nothing he could do, that any attempts he could think of would end up in vain, that he held the fate of his kingdom in his hands and yet when he clenched then shut they would only be met with empty air. Empty. Nothing. Null. Void.

.... _ Void _ ....

His pacing stops, his breathing catches in his throat, and he immediately spins on his heel, spotting the fading glimmer of the armor of the Kingsmould. He holds out his hand towards it, letting the energy of his being swell into his fingertips, as he calls out his command. “Stop!”

It immediately ceases to a halt, one foot still raised in the air. It makes no move, no twitch, nothing to indicate anything. His heart races, his pulse pounds, and his claws clench. “...Come here.”

It spins on it’s stationary foot, finally letting the suspended leg clank to the ground as it stoically walks back towards it’s creator. He walks to meet it, and the moment he gets close enough, he reaches out to grab it by the shoulder and have it bend down so it could meet his eyes. It offers no resistance, no twitch of muscle or flesh, just a simple, fluid bending motion, as if it was merely a puppet on strings. He stares, stares as hard as he can into the white spheres of light that gave the Mould it’s form, and he sees not even a speck of orange.

He lets its’ shoulder go. It doesn’t move. He takes a step back, then two, then three. It still doesn’t move, doesn’t even give a blink or reflexive twitch to show that it was aware of his actions at all. He finally reaches back, calls upon his energy, and summons a blade into his palm. He thrusts it towards the Moulds chest, as if going to stab it, as if moving to make a fatal blow, but stopping just as the tip touches the breastplate.

Not a single twitch.

The King, his breathing growing fast, shaky, his heart hammering in his chest, makes one final test. He grabs the Mould by the shoulder once more, holds its’ gaze with his own, and drives the blade right through. The end comes out the other side, dripping with black, with the life of his creation. It simply stares at him, before beginning to melt, to liquify in his arms, until his robes are stained with tar and the armor is left behind, as hollow as it was when it was crafted.

No. It has always been hollow. He just didn’t see it until now.

 

••••

He stored himself in his work study, deep within the basement of the Palace, where not even his holy light would shine, the empty shells of his previous creations littering the walls and the ground like fallen corpses.

Days passed by, perhaps even weeks, the King didn’t truly know, nor did he care. He did not touch the meals that were placed on his work bench by his followers, nor did he open the silken scrolls that Lurien continued to send him; they would be nothing more than wastes to what precious little time he still had left. Every second was a bug gone mad, lost to the light. Every minute was a riot breaking out in every corner of the kingdom, of guards fighting back the infected and doomed, while the screaming, crying public watched. He could not afford even the simplest of distractions, not when he was getting so close to figuring out a solution. He had all he needed, right in the palm of his hands; the Void, his godly might, and the torch that had yet to be lit.

He slowly steps back from his work to examine it, look it over, eyes trailing over the structure for any sign of a single crack or chip or wobble, and he lets out a satisfied hum as he sees no such thing, finally letting the carving knife drop from his fingers. He picks up a bowl, stirs the ashes with a claw, before slowly pouring them into the torch’s center, where the flame would be lit, twinkling embers of crimson rock still sparkling at him even amongst the cold, blackened dust. He stares at it for a moment, his eyes narrowing, before he lifts up his hand above the flame, and slides one of his holy blades across the palm. His divine blood rushes down his wrist, and once the droplets hit the ashes, the flame starts to spark. He quickly takes a step back, waiting, waiting for  _ him _ to emerge.

He couldn’t help but take the brief moment of silence and respite to rub his eyes, feeling the exhaustion beneath his fingers, and softly groaned. Gods, he hoped this would work.

The initial effect is almost like firecrackers, the sparks sizzling and growing and popping, until a final  _ fwoosh _ combines all the flares into a singular bonfire that hovers for a moment before suddenly doubling in size and tripling in height. The air in the room speeds toward the flames, fueling them as they climb and spin into a cylinder, and the heat is almost intense enough for him to take another step back. A worried glance is definitely given to the nearby curtains. But this was something that had been expected.

The column bulges for a moment, highlights of a darker red filling between the pinkish flames as flickers of something midnight dark fluttered just within the center of the fiery hurricane. A book on the desk behind him flipped open with a hearty  _ snap _ and the winds crescendoed for but a moment before a clawed hand darted out from the blaze as if it were some mere drapery. A swift swish of the arm and the flames were engulfed under a dark, multi-tailed cloak. The glimmer of embers radiated from the underside, casting a slight glow about the feet of the creature before him, but it was the eyes that drew the most attention.

Glowing crimson lakes of pure mischief and amusement.

"Quite the charming idol you present, and based on such a nostalgic time too." The eyes searched him for a moment. It was much too dark in the room after such a flare of light. He bowed, but his eyes never left the King's. "For what honor do you call upon my services?"

The King doesn’t move to shield his eyes from the spectacle of flame, and as the figure slowly emerges from within the monsoon of crimson, casting a bout of theatric flair from his fingertips, he feels his spine stiffen, his shoulders raising upwards in preparation for the discussion he is about to have. It had been a long time since he had set his eyes on the Nightmare King, and he found that this form did not match the one he was familiar with. Best to go with the polite formalities first. He inhales slowly, before letting his voice ring out through the darkness. “Greetings, Nightmare King. I hope time has treated you well since we last met. I see that your form has changed; has the death of your most foul rival aided in your restoration?”

"Oh, yeah, but that was a while ago, so, whatever." He waves a hand, all sense of principle fading into ease and comfort. "To light one torch, another must be snuffed and so forth. But seriously, what's going on? The last time someone used that spell to conjure me was ages ago, and it wasn't for some kind of birthday parlor tricks gig." His head tilted, hands gesturing as talked, and his one eye narrowed as the other widened, an expression of curiosity and subtle confusion all rolled into one. He blinked and stilled his hands for a moment. "Oh, and people call me Grimm these days. Much shorter  and easier to roll of the tongue."

The lax and relatively uncouth mannerisms of the burning god was enough to make the Pale King blink in slight surprise, and his eyes narrow slightly as he tries to register this...rather odd change. “I...I see.” He shakes his head and walks closer to the towering figure, the heat of his cloak being enough to make the air shimmer, tongues of shadow and crimson fire dancing along the walls, illuminating the hollow Moulds and scribbled runes. “Tell me, Grimm, do you sense Her within the walls of my kingdom? I have no doubt that you do. That’s why I called you here; She has risen from the dead within Her realm of dreams, and I have no way to reach Her. She’s infecting the minds of my people, corrupting them into Her pawns of murder and regicide, and She wishes nothing more to destroy my legacy.”

Grimm raises his chin just a slight bit, considering his words. A sense of seriousness was brought back to him. "I can feel Her presence, yes. If I'm honest, I felt Her a little while ago. Nothing more than a slight twitch, but still... there." He looks aside, eying the odd corpses littering the ground. "Hmph. She's definitely within your walls. I can feel Her crawling all over." His eyes move to trace the ceiling in paths the King couldn't quite understand. "How bad is it? I imagine  _ rather bad, _ but... tell me."

“..I do not know the extent of how many She’s corrupted, but I do know that She can now physically possess those that have gone mad under Her Light. One of my most noble followers had fallen under Her control, and attacked me.” He lowers the fabric of his robes just enough to display the scar that lined his throat. “If this continues, I have no doubt it will be the end of me and all that I have made. Which is why I have to come up with a solution, and I need your aid in doing so.”

The Nightmare King goes still at the sight of the scar, eyes wide. He stays silent for a long moment, before apparently recalling that staring is deemed offensive by most people and turning away. His eyes fall upon the corpses once more. "You've been busy, my Pale King."

Well, at least the questions as statements hadn't entirely gone away. The open-endedness of them had been a welcome staple in their long history with each other. Despite the circumstances, he was somewhat glad that hadn't changed with everything else.

The slight ounce of familiarity is enough to have him let out a light sigh, letting his shoulders relax just a touch; he hadn’t realized just how stiff his muscles had been until he felt the warmth of Grimm’s power slide over his carapace, the feeling akin to rushing water. “Yes, yes I have...” He tugs his robes back into place before he turns to pick up a jar and hold it up to Grimm’s visage, containing what appears to be black liquid, sloshing around and writhing in a way that almost seems like it’s  _ alive. _ “This...This is what will finally smite Her from my land. You know this power just as well as I do. Unthinking, unfeeling, nothing but pure destruction existing within it’s vile form. I need to find a way to use this, to use the Void itself, to find and destroy Her.”

He raises a brow, watching as the liquid hurled itself at the glass walls of its prison. "Unthinking and unfeeling by itself, but immediately tainted by those who use it." He takes the container with both long fingered hands, making the strong grip look dainty as he held it closer to his eyes. "It's more fragile than most would assume. To give such a thing direction, yet allow it to keep its own nature...." His eyes narrow, and he lowers the glass, but doesn't return it. "You've been trying this on your own. And failing."

The almost chilling gaze of those crimson eyes falling onto him was enough to make his claws clench shut for a moment, his eyes glancing down at the empty Moulds that surround him. “..Yes, I have. I’ve managed to create shells for the Void to inhabit, a long time ago, but they’re too fragile, too flimsy to even consider using against Her. They lack purpose, tact, more like blank slates than adapting life forms.“

"You should have reached out to me earlier." He tactfully puts a hand on the lid as the captured Void leaps at its prison's roof. An inkling of fire warms the handle under his palm and the slightest bit of a screech is heard as the shadow plops back to bottom of the jar. "I know you're more well-versed in this area than others, but I still know more than you do. You could have unleashed something worse than She has, or at least doubled the difficulty of your feat."

“Perhaps, but focusing on the past is foolish. What I’m asking for is your help  _ now. _ Help to save my kingdom and my people from the wrath of this vile scourge. If you have any conditions or prices you want me to pay, name them.”

Grimm watches him. Nothing about his gaze wavers, and it's clear he's noted both the seriousness and desperation in his voice. Slowly, silently, he hands the bottled void back to the Pale King, and turns away from him, looking out at the messy room, the occasional stain of void where a bottle had evidently broken, the broken carapaces stored haphazardly, sometimes even one on top of another. His face was unreadable. Not that the newness of it helped.

The King took the jar from Grimm’s hands reactively, blinking in sheer confusion at how silent the fellow god had gotten, fear beginning to well up within his body, his organs shriveling as the icy realization that Grimm might just flat-out refuse sends a wave of chilling cold through his body. He finds himself staring, staring desperately, his hands clenching the glass so hard it was close to cracking.

"I can't let you continue this," is the verdict, and the words are surprisingly soft for the weight of them, "though I know you will even if I spent all day trying to beat your crown straight." He lowers his head, almost laughing. "I don't like getting involved in your politics, Pale King. I don't like getting involved in  _ Her _ drama either. But..."

“Please just- just out with it!” The King was trying to reign himself in, trying to keep himself from trembling, his palms growing clammy. He could feel the seconds ticking by, the minutes, the lives he swore to protect, all of them falling, draining between his fingertips like water through rocks and he couldn’t just sit by and let it happen he was wasting too much  _ time! _

Grimm turns back to him sharply, a scowl on his face at the impatience of the other god. "You bring me here asking for  _ my _ help. I'd hope you had the sense to  _ wait for it _ instead of forcing it out of me. Now, do you want my help or not?"

The sudden scowl and anger rumbling in Grimm’s voice was enough to have his muscles pull taut, and he turns away to set the bottle down, staring down at the writhing, growling shape of darkness, trying to focus on it, only it and nothing else. This was the key to make this nightmare stop. This and nothing else. He needed to focus on the goal ahead. Needed to pull himself together. He would not let it consume him. Not let it overtake him.

He takes one deep breath, two, before turning around to face the Nightmare King. “...Yes, I do. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

"All you have to do is _ let me help. _ " He strides forward, taking the jar again. "No more fixations. You need to be  _ thinking _ ." The glass disappears under Grimm's cloak. "I understand that you're under quite a bit of stress. People  _ are _ dying, after all. And I understand this isn't an easy burden to bear; She's absolutely  _ insufferable _ even when supposedly dead and  _ gone _ . But if you aren't thinking clearly, then you aren't going to accomplish anything. Secondly..."

He puts a hand on the Pale King's shoulder, leaning down to clearly look him in the eyes. "I need you to tell me  _ everything. _ No lies. No deceit. And I mean  _ everything. _ Right down to exactly what was going through your head when you created each of these... things." He waves vaguely around the room, at the carapaces surrounding them.

The King wasn’t expecting the touch from Grimm’s hand, the touch and it’s scalding warmth, and he couldn’t help but shiver at how the heat trailed itself down his spine. He stared into those crimson eyes boring into his, seeking,  _ devouring _ everything it attempted to see in his soul, and he has to stop himself from trembling at the way his blood curdled. He slowly turns away from Grimm’s gaze, staring down at the empty armor of the Moulds. “..I made them because I wanted to. I made them because I wanted to craft the Void into something I could control, something I could harness to use, for nothing more than the sake of myself. I hated the fact that there was something dwelling within the depths of my kingdom, something that opposed me more than the beasts of the Deepnest or the tribes in the Fungal Wastes. Something that opposed my very divinity.” His hands clench, and he bends down to pick up the helmet of a Kingsmould.

“..I wanted to have the Void bend to my wills. I wanted it to belong to me, and only me,  so nothing else, not Her, not you, not any other god could come and usurp me from my throne. I was so focused on harnessing the darkness, so hellbent on building my kingdom and securing the faith and loyalty of my people, that I failed to see the threat looming until it’s come and seized it’s chance.”

Grimm takes a step back, giving the King some space as he talks. "So your pride is getting in the way of things. Not unusual, for you." He leans against the desk, watching him inspect the helmet. "The Void bends to no one. It merely makes room. It asks a price, but never asks in words. You must pay in kind."

He considers asking more questions, diving deeper into what personally made each of these carapaces, how much time was spent, how each one reacted when whatever hellish service was finished. But he figured asking such questions would only anger the god in front of him. It wouldn't do well to burn a bridge with such a silly question. "I can only imagine you've been paying with some form of mental stress. You forcibly remove a part of the Void, and the Void strains your efforts and creates more difficulty for you going forward. Correct?"

“...I suppose so. The prototypes weren’t exactly in working order. They would fall apart without warning, my Knights tended to accidentally break them apart while they sparred, and sometimes they would...revert back to what they used to be.” He seems to wince, and his arm reflexively clutches his left side. “As the method improved, they became more refined, more robust. They do not act of their own will, and they only respond to my verbal commands. They’re practically statues if an order isn’t being carried out.”

"Hm." He shifts how he's leaning - tables are  _ not _ comfortable, but, it gives off the impression he's going for, so why not? - and crosses one leg over the other. "How about we get out of this room? It's been a while since I've last had tea. We can continue talking over drinks."

The King’s hands clench, his blood already starting to boil with irritation, with anger. Tea?  _ Tea? _ How can be he  _ possibly _ sit back and drink  _ tea _ when everyone, all of his subjects, his guards, were out there, terrified, dying, slowly being consumed by-!

His hands come up to rub his forehead, and he reflexively starts pacing, muttering curses under his breath in a vain effort to hold back the boiling tide of anger that was threatening to wash over him, his body starting to glow a bright, brilliant white, hot and seething with the fury that longed to be unleashed, before he finally turns towards the nearest Mould, and outstretches his palm. It’s incinerated with a blast of light that shakes the ground and causes the Void deep, deeper down below to shriek in rage and agony, and he finds himself collapsing onto his knees, panting softly, his head throbbing, his body aching, his heart  _ straining _ .

“...Tea...would be nice...”

Grimm's eyes were wide as he saw the initial visceral reaction. The pacing and muttering were things he had scarcely seen from the Pale King, and maybe he had been reading the situation a slight bit too lightly. As the glow grows from him, he shrinks back, squinting to at least see which way the god is moving. The shriek from the Void made him bolt upright, but the light nearly blinds him and he hisses. At the words, he steps carefully forward, kneeling next to him and waiting for him to recover, silent in offering his support.

"Good. That's... good."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s another chapter, my dudes! Hope you all enjoy it, and feel free to send some comments telling us what you think!

“ **TRY. TRY ALL YOU WANT, WRYM! BUT NOTHING, NOT EVEN THE FLAMES OF MY ENEMY CAN POSSIBLY SLAY ME NOW! YOUR REIGN IS AT AN END! EVEN AS WE SPEAK, MY LIGHT IS ALREADY SPREADING, CONSUMING, MAKING THE ONES YOU FORCED TO FORGET REMEMBER! THEY WILL REMEMBER ME! THEY WILL ALL REMEMBER ME! I WILL NOT BE FORGOTTEN**!”

“Silence.” The King’s eyes narrow down at the writhing husk of a beetle with vile hatred brewing in his eyes, his expression contorting into a look of steely malice that was sharper than any blade. The leather straps holding the screeching puppet of a bug was strong, and the table they were held down to was anchored in place, to prevent any momentum from disrupting the procedure. The guards were dismissed, the advisors were given orders. There would be nothing to stop him from tinkering with the Void, to unleash all of it’s secrets, to force it to aid him in this task. But with any project, there needed to be a test run.

A small squeak came from a far corner of the room, bright eyes opening at the sound of the door closing shut. A small bat flew toward the King and the infected creature, momentarily flying above the table as other silhouetted replicas crept from the shadows. With a slight gust of wind, Grimm took form behind the King, staring impassively at the tied bug. "An intriguing case of pride vers' pride, if I may say so myself. So much hubris in one room - it's almost palpable."

The King didn’t even twitch at the sound of Grimm’s voice, nor did he shudder as the gust of wind ruffled his robes, but the infected creature, one of the many husks that now held Her will, hissed in revulsion. “ **SO, YOU SEEK TO MAKE YOURSELF SO MEDDLESOME AS TO AID MY ENEMY, NIGHTMARE KING. HOW PATHETIC. WHAT LIES DID HE FEED YOU TO SWAY YOU ONTO HIS SIDE**?”

“I said, _silence._ ” The King tightens the bonds in an effort to cease the squirming of his captive, his teeth gritting harshly.

"I don't need lies," Grimm continues, which probably doesn't help the King's attempts to quiet Her. "All I need is to see this." His claw of a hand leaves his cloak, gesturing to the confined creature, the bright orange tinge in the eyes. "I am not here to pick sides, Radiant One. You prove a threat to innocents. That is what matters here."

“ **THREAT? THREAT?! I AM NO THREAT! I USED TO BE THE RULER OF THESE LANDS! MOTHER TO ALL LIFE, AND THE GIVER OF LIGHT! BUT THEN THE WYRM, THE PUTRID VILE WRYM, WEARING THE SKINS OF A MORTAL, CAME AND USURPED ME! TURNED MY PEOPLE AGAINST ME AND MADE THEM FORGET ME! NOW I AM RETURNING THE FAVOR! THIS IS NO THREAT, THIS IS DIVINE RETRIBUTION**!”

The King turns away from the shrieking body, and moves to grab the nearest jar. “This is the most fresh sample we have, yes?” He turns and holds up the Void for Grimm to see, his face blank, devoid of anger, devoid of rage.

"Er, yes." He clamps his jaw around the instinctive urge to return a comment to the Radiance. She clearly didn't understand what she was doing to the bugs caught in the crossfire of this divine duel. "Do you have the runes in mind?"

“Indeed.” He unravels a scroll and points to the specific runic shapes. “This one means _destroy_ , this one means _confine_ , and this one means _erase_. We can either use paint on the body or on the jar, and whichever one we choose first should take full effect.”

"I would say to put it on the jar, but that last one might be too much. Direct application to the specimen typically has better results, allows the Void to adapt to the runes."

“Hmm..What if we apply the runes to both the body _and_ the jar? Wouldn’t that theoretically lead to the best results?”

"It would theoretically establish a connection, yes." Grimm considers the option, looking between the infected bug and the inky jar. "It would have to be quick, if I can properly recall my last encounter with such a thing."

“Very well. Which rune should we try first?” His gaze flicks to the infected husk and his gaze narrows. “I suggest _destroy_.”

" _Layers_ , Pale King. We've discussed this." He sighs, bringing a hand up to rub at his face. " _Confine_ first. Lessens the likelihood of breaking the bonds, and it's the least volatile."

His gaze grows a touch more irritated but he nods in begrudging agreement. “Hrmm...Very well. Would marking the jar with the runes on the outside or the inside work best?”

"Hm. Inside, most likely. Though that would be more risky."

“No need to worry. I have a special technique for that.” Without another word, he spins the lid of the jar open, and both gods, of dream and nightmare, reflexively flinch. He drops the lid to the table, and his hand begins to glow with divine light, causing the Void to let out a slow, gurgling hiss. The King slides his hand into the jar, causing the hissing to grow into a heavy, feral snarl, and as he slowly draws his hand back, tendrils begin to creep free, begin to follow, baited into trailing after his glowing talons. Soon, the entire sample was now feverishly suspended in mid-air, circling endlessly around the King’s hand, hissing softly, in anger, in hollow rage, aching to destroy the light that tortured it but unable to reach out and snuff it.

Grimm stares with wide eyes, unwilling to speak lest the noise distracts the King from his task. His shoulders almost lock into position, legs poised to dart if the sample escapes. Being so close, knowing the potential ramifications of it getting loose.... He could almost feel his heart quiver somewhere distant. It wasn't as if he had a debt to pay, but he still felt a price which spanned time.

Then again, he could easily use his own fire to deter the specimen. And the Pale King was being incredibly gentle with his movements. It was almost entrancing with the dichotomy presented by the Void's angry motions. The King seemed to gaze at the Void circling around his hand with a look that almost seemed fond, maybe even possessive, before he glances back over at Grimm and holds up the empty jar expectantly. After a beat of silence, he speaks, softly, as if trying to keep the Void from being roused. “I can’t paint with one arm, Grimm.”

He wordlessly takes the jar, not wanting to vocalize his mistake - though perhaps more not wanting to take his eyes off the Void slinking around the Pale King's wrist. Taking a breath and doing his best to feign nonchalance, he picks up the writing instrument. With the ease of someone who had written the runic symbols a million times prior, he pens the ink in neat lines. Still not saying a word, he offers the jar to the King. The King takes the jar again, and the hand holding it begins to glow, much like the one still containing the Void. The darkness seems to ripple, over and over, before slowly slinking it’s way back, the King having to slowly dip his free hand into the jar in order to make sure it slides all the way off. As soon as he pulls his hand free, he finally lets the glow in his hands fade, to which the living darkness immediately bashes all around the glass, shrieking with rage and absolute fury.

"An interesting trick, my King." His breath had returned with the closing of the lid, and he found himself capable of moving again as well. "I wasn't aware... well, we can leave that for later. Shall we move to the next step?"

“Indeed. I think it’s fair to let me ink out the other runes this time, yes?” He sets the jar down, turning to face the husk, still attempting to struggle but failing miserably thanks to the tightened straps.

"If you would so wish." Grimm moves aside for him, circling the table and staying a safe distance from the thrashing creature.

The King slowly walks over to the table, his eyes narrowing with visible disdain at the sight of the husk and it’s dead, glowing eyes, before suddenly moving to grab the beetle by the horn, lifting up the head. He takes his free hand and begins probing around the back of the neck, and, with a sharp jabbing motion, the bug suddenly goes dead still, and the King lets go of their horn. “Much better.” He then starts to dutifully aptly the ink with quick, precise strokes.

Grimm's hands tighten under his cloak, but he otherwise doesn't show any evidence of discomfort. He watches as the bug's eyes flicker back and forth, growls still filtering through tightly clenched mandibles. "That wasn't entirely necessary."

“It wouldn’t stop squirming.” The King’s gaze doesn’t leave the carapace of the husk, his wrist moving in defy gestures as the ink is finely painted.

"We could have added more straps." He watches the last few strokes cross the shell. "Out of curiosity, have either of you tried talking to each other? I hear therapy is rather _in_ these days."

The King’s head snapped upwards and his gaze was so icy it could make even Grimm’s flames feel like nothing more than an ember. He says nothing, and even the Void seems to quell within it’s cage.

"Just offering a suggestion," Grimm continues, shrugging as if the glare wasn't physically contesting with the heat of the room. "Y'know, making sure we haven't exhausted all our options and such?"

“...Talking is not an option. It will never be an option.” He finishes off the last rune and plunges the quill into the inkwell with a little more force than necessary, turning away from the now unmoving husk.

Grimm frowns for the moment the Pale King's back is turned. He knows that the Radiance is pissed off enough to not be entirely capable of simply sitting down and talking things out with, but at the same time, there wasn't any evidence that either had tried to negotiate with the other. And as someone who didn't want to take either side - no way was he angering the King here, but he wasn't going to simply ignore the fact that the Radiance had managed to, in essence, zombiefy Herself and possess other god's citizens and worshippers - he didn't want to run the risk of either of their ire. At the very least, he could use this moment with the infected bug to get some fraction of that into the Radiance's head. He was willing to hear Her out. Not that it would change his mind that what She was doing was sick and twisted.

"So you say," he hazards. A third time's the charm, yes? "Though there is a difference between talking and discussion."

“Discussion is not an option then. There is nothing to discuss. She is enslaving my people and using them to slaughter more. She threatens my land and my legacy, my Queen and my Kingdom. I’ve slain her once and I seek to do it again.”

Or maybe not the charm. Oh, well. He shrugs and makes a small noise of affirmation. The King wasn't _wrong_. But it was clear that neither of them had an open mind towards trying to put this feud behind them. Some gods push other gods out, accidentally and purposefully. Some gods kill other gods, also accidentally and purposefully. He couldn't understand the tension, nor how the two couldn't fully see the truth of the situation, but it wouldn't do to poke and prod at this time. And he had to admit that going after citizens, those of a lesser power than gods, was merely hitting downward. There was no finesse, no dignity or honor or respect in doing so. So, by all means, the King was, however slightly, in the right here. So Grimm's allegiance would remain that way.

Finally, the King turns around with the jar of Void in his claws, walking over to the husk, sneering at the sight of the orange eyes, glaring up at him with the same vile hatred that he felt brewing within himself. He glances back up at Grimm, eyes narrowed. “Shall we begin the test?”

He straightens, and takes a step closer. He nods. "We shall."

The King unscrews the lid once more, and tips it, right in front of the husk’s paralyzed face, and there was a visible hint of fear that began to well up in those hideously bleak eyes. The darkness crept forth slowly, like a predator getting ready to sink in it’s fangs, before it suddenly leaps, and with a ghastly, horrifically strangled scream of rage and agony, the husk is left to suffer in paralyzed spasms as the twisted darkness sinks into its eyes, it’s mouth, burrowing through it’s flesh yet not causing a single drop of blood to be spilt.

As the shadowy substance creeps over and into the bug, Grimm keeps a close eye on the reaction. There wasn't anything particularly violent, yet. Given that the bug is consuming and coming into contact with pure Void and hasn't yet dissolved into ash or some other monster is promising as is. But the contortions of its face and the relatively small twitches of its limbs were enough to cause some level of worry. As the Void fully sinks into the bug, Grimm bends down to whisper into its ear.

"If the bug in there can still hear me, I am sorry it had to come to this."

There was a moment of silence, and the gurgling, dying growls and snarls of the Light within slowly died away, the orange haze that had befallen their gaze slowly withering away and becoming consumed within the darkness. The King’s body grew ridged, his breathing coming to a halt within his lungs, his organs growing tense, trembling within his shell, waiting, waiting for the horrors to finally be over.

Then the bug twitches once, twice, before a sickening crack is heard, followed by fleshy tearing as it’s body seems to slowly go limp, it’s jaws and vacant sockets beginning to ooze with black, with the gurgling, hissing essence of the Void, a thick, viscous sludge that slowly drips down their carapace. The blade is already in the King’s hand, and he opens up the torso with one swift stroke, only to reveal nothing more than a steaming lake of darkness and slowly melting flesh.

Grimm sighs and straightens, eyes closed. If he was being honest, he had been expecting something like this. The King's testaments to the difficulty of curing this ailment was not one he could easily set aside. But the failure still stings. He recognizes that he feels perhaps the barest inkling of the King's own frustration and grief. How many times had he done this? How many times had he failed?

The King’s blade is tipped with the dripping, dripping darkness, and the way the droplets shook betrayed the seemingly steady motions of his hand. His face was blank, his body motionless, yet the rage was clearly boiling within. Grimm barely has time to move before he undoes the straps and merely picks up the corpse by its horn, leaving behind a thick, bloody trail of darkness and gore as he drags it over to what appears to be a simple window. The husk, slowly being consumed by the Void, is chucked out, and the King’s claws are stained with black.

“...A waste of time...”

Grimm watches, worrying for a moment about heedlessly tossing a corpse out a window - much less a corpse tainted with Void - but decides to shelve the criticism for a later date. He rounds the table, carefully picking his way around the Void trail, and digs one of his many handkerchiefs from within his cloak. Heaving another sigh, he takes the King's hands and gently begins wiping away the stains.

"You should be more careful with yourself. You may be a God, but Void still harms you. Let me take care of the bodies from now on."

“I’m fine. I’ve dealt with it longer than you have, and I know that for a fact.” He doesn’t move or yank his hands away despite his protests, and the rage in his eyes slowly die down, into an expression much more tired, desperate..fearful. “..So direct contact is obviously not the way to go, even with runes...So the Void must be placed into something that is artificial, yet also can adapt to withholding the strength of a Goddess without simply breaking.”

"It appears so, yes." He feels off not correcting him, but the darkness not coming of the King's hands has him more concerned. _Staining_ had definitely been the proper term. He couldn't help but pass a thumb over the blackened tips of his fingers. He hadn't noticed over the last few days. Why hadn't he noticed?

“..Then we have to get to work.” He slowly pulls away his hands and picks up another jar of the same Void, to which it chitters and gurgles, hissing softly within its glass prison.

Grimm is silent for a moment longer, and then nods and follows him further into the study to discuss more runes and possible options. The Void continues to squeal from its confines, and the Nightmare King finds the noise all too distracting for the serious conversation they're having. It's necessary to have the Void present, so they could determine its particular annoyance and troubles before moving forward, but he couldn't think past how the creature sitting on the desk between them was defiling the god before him. His words were short, though his tone was its typical aloofness. He could only hope the King was too deep in his studies to notice the suboptimal responses.

The door to the work room, sealed off just in case of a potential breach of Void, suddenly rang out with a sharp little knocking sound, and the King’s expression quickly turned to absolute aggravation, and he lets out an audible growl as he marches his way over to the doorway, lined with runes that shine brightly before slowly cracking open just as he nears it’s perimeter. He pauses as the door opens, looking down, presumably, at the unseen fellow who knocked. ”I gave orders to not be disturbed.”

The sound of the wobbling, almost panicked voice of the advisor was heard easily from the acoustics of the room. “B-But, My King, the Soul Soother wishes to speak to you, he says it’s an urgent matter.”

“How urgent?”

“He says he won’t leave unless he gets an audience, My King.”

There was a pause where the King’s hands clench, and his mandibles chatter, growling lowly in his throat, looking positively simmering with rage. But then, as quickly as it came, it’s gone, and he lets out an aggravated sigh. “Tell him I’ll be with him in a moment.”

“Y-Yes, My King!” There was the sound of scuttling footsteps that grew softer and softer.

Grimm, who had taken to leaning against a shelf where the shadows were dark enough to conceal him, takes a step out of the darkness and chuckles lightly. "Soul Soother? What does he hope to do? Sweet talk you into compliance and relaxation?"

“That’s his official title. He owns a monastery in the capital of the Kingdom, and he specializes in the magic of the Soul, along with his monks.“ He sighs and shakes his head, lifting his hand up to rub his eyes. “I have to attend this, I’m sure you understand; it would be no good to simply refuse.”

"Sounds intriguing. Mind if I tag along?" He laughs again at the look that crosses the King's face. "I can turn into bats, your highness. No one will see me. Plus, it might give me some insight into how the public is handling things."

The King stares at him for just a moment longer before he simply rolls his eyes, turning to open the door fully. “If you believe you must, then go ahead. But _I_ will do the talking.”

"Of course, your highness." He bows, and promptly bursts into a dozen shadowy bats, which all fly around in the shadows close to the ceiling. One floats down to the Pale King's shoulder, poorly concealing the amusement in his voice as he asks, "Mind if we hide in your robes?"

His face seems to gain a sort of darker hue for a moment in response, and he merely shakes his head, casting a quick glare at the little bat. “Is that at all necessary?”

"No, but I wanted to see the look on your face anyways." He chuckles and flutter to the top of the door, the other bats closing in around him. "Lead the way."

“I swear you’re going to be the death of me one of these days.” The King sighs and proceeds to leave the room, slowly making his way towards the main courtyard, where he was sure the Soul Soother was waiting. Grimm follows, sticking close to the ceiling or along the ground where pedestals or other decorations provided ample hiding grounds.

 

••••

It wasn’t long for the King to finally walk out into the courtyard, the gentle buzzing of twinkling lumaflies passing by as he steps across the stone pathway, the sound of the splashing fountains and the dull snipping of the gardener’s shears providing the place with a sense of calm, and he couldn’t help but take a deep breath, eyes closing for a moment, smelling the scents of the plants and flowers his dear Root had taken such good care of.

It wasn’t until his eyes opened again did he see the figure of the Soul Soother, two followers at his sides, all three bowing in signs of reverence and respect. He could see the gemstones and glitz that twinkled off of their robes, see the clean and and healthy-looking gleam of their shells, and his eyes narrowed. Nevertheless, he approached, stopping a few inches away, speaking softly, quietly, not wanting his voice to crack from the days of being inside a stuffy room. “Arise.”

The Soul Soother immediately straightens to his feet, his grin kept polite but fond all the same, and his hand shoots out to grab one of the King’s own, giving it a vigorous shake. “Good day, My King, good day! I do hope that you’ve been free of any troubles down here in your wonderful palace! It sure would be a shame if any of that nasty plague were to sully such a glorious work of art!”

The sudden and unexpected handshake was enough to have the King’s eyes widen in surprise, not moving for a few seconds out of shock, until he firmly grips back, already feeling his blood pressure beginning to spike. “Indeed, it most certainly would be, Soul Soother.” He lets his grip tighten of a fraction harder than it needed to be, just to ease some of the growing anger brewing in the back of his skull.

Grimm made a swift job of finding the crevices to hide his shadow selves in, squeezing under bushes, behind oddly shaped rocks, and up into larger flora to hide in the leafy foliage above the meeting grounds. He had to admit the place impressed him somewhat. It was evident a lot of care had gone into the gardens - something the Soul Soother evidently lacked in relation to respect. The cheerfulness of the voice was immediately grating, and he had to bite his tongue to keep from hissing when the civilian broke proper etiquette to steal the Pale King's hand. Grimm noticed the tight grip that was sent in return, and he hoped it left bruises and cracks in its wake.

The King waits long enough to see a grimace of pain, however slight, fly over the Soother’s face, before he lets go of the mortal’s hand, and tucks his own back into his robes so that it cannot he grabbed again, trying his best to keep his face blank. “If you do not mind me asking, Soul Soother, why have you called me to meet you in my courtyard?”

The Soul Soother’s grin bounces back from it’s fall, becoming even more infectious and vibrant, to the point where his teeth were on display, and it took all of the King’s self restraint to not chitter his mandibles in disgust. He makes a show of vigorously nodding, practically bouncing in place as he loudly proclaims his words, to the point where several gardeners were looking over in confusion. “Ah, yes, yes, of course! Pardon me for dillying, I know you must be quite busy, Your Excellency! I never would’ve come and interrupted your duties were it not for my grand discovery!”

“Please, get to the point.” The King’s voice was curt, sharp, a subtle snap of irritation that broke free, and his eyes narrow.

That seemed to cause the Soother to sober up from his almost manic glee, and he quickly turns to the follower to his left, who steps forward and holds up what looks to be a glowing white gemstone, hanging off of a necklace. The King didn’t even need to look at it to feel the power radiating off it, from within it’s core. The Soother’s grin grew so wide it looked as if his jaw would crack. “Behold, Your Majesty! The answer to the plague! That right there, trapped within the core of that crystal, is the infection, drawn from the body of one of those hideous monsters that now roam this kingdom!”

Grimm's eyes widen. The answer to the plague? The infection, trapped within a crystal? He cranes his neck over a particularly large branch to try and get a better look, perhaps even try and determine the magic used - it couldn't be too complicated if a commoner had achieved it - but the distance still leaves him guessing. The colour meant the creature's name was befitting, though. Soul Soother. What was this bug getting at? What were his secrets, and how exactly was he using _Soul_ magic? There were many ways, of course. Most had been lost to time, largely, but others.... Well, it would only take a dedicated and stubborn mind to unearth them once again.

The King has gone very still upon setting his eyes on the crystal, and his hands slowly emerge from his robes to take the necklace from the follower’s hands. The Soother’s grin loses some of it’s vibrancy, and his own hand shoots out to grip the King’s, his grip tight. “Be careful, My King! The seal covering it is very fragile, and I wouldn’t dare want you to somehow become damaged by the awful plague within!”

The King’s eye twitches sharply as he feels the mortal’s hand grip his wrist, and his gaze flicks to stare daggers into the Soother’s own as he makes a show of yanking his hand away. “I know how to handle myself, Soother. Now let me examine it, _now_.”

There was a brief moment of silence before the Soother slowly draws back, and the King’s hands slowly enclose over the gemstone, drawing it close to examine it’s structure. It was admittedly very stable looking, with nary a crack or chip to be seen, the glowing, flickering core glowing as white as his own carapace. His eyes narrow, sensing the magic within, sensing his own, and it took all his restraint to not crush the crystal into splinters. “...You tore out the soul of a husk.”

The Soother’s expression flickers into something of fear for just a moment, before his grin comes back. “But, My King, do you know what this means? The infection is over! We can now extract the life from those beasts, preventing them from infecting anything else!  We can purge the infection from the bodies of others, giving them the power to flush out the disease! The soul can already do so much on it’s own, just imagine the possibilities when we can now fully unlock it’s potential!”

What.... what was this line of thought? Even if he had no idea that the infection moved to hosts in an entirely nonphysical way, removing the soul of a bug kills it, not cures it. To say you could harness a bug's soul to cure the disease would be.... Grimm's eyes widen, looking over the incredibly healthy visage of the three bugs, the energy with which they conversed and presented themselves. Taking soul would definitely kill the subject, but you _could_ use it to bolster your own being.

 _Giving them the power to flush out the disease_.

Such arrogance! Such selfishness! Grimm knew of pride, knew it rather intimately at that, but this was beyond vanity and typical performance. This was that dark, negative side which was always the downfall of its owner. He couldn't keep the anger from welling in him, traveling in barely contained vibrations that just barely shook the branch he rested upon. This bug was advising to kill hundreds to _potentially_ save a few dozen, not cure and rid the kingdom of infection! A genocide this bug would have. And he _dared_ bring it before his King.

The King didn’t say anything for a moment, his eyes staring at the Soother with a steely, empty gaze, before his hands clench over the gemstone, and tuck it back into his robes. The Soother stares with confusion, his grin now dropping into a frown. “U-Uh, My King, I’m g-going to need that back-“

“I’m not your King.”

That got the Soother to blink in surprise, and his followers look similarly stupefied. “P-Pardon me-“

The King’s hand darts forward to grip the Soother by the collar of those despicable robes, and yanks him forward, their faces inches away. His voice was soft, stern, and positively _shaking_ with rage. “You took the soul of one of my subjects. One of the many that I have ruled over, taken care of, and yearn to keep safe. And you just went and sapped them of their life in an effort to preserve your own. Speak your words, grab for excuses, whatever you see fit, but I know what you claim to be the cure, and I can say for certain that I will _never_ accept whatever facsimile you put forth in front of me. To dare commit such atrocities to my own people and frame it as a sign of glory, as an achievement of victory, is a slight that sickens me to my core.”

His eyes are wide, shocked, wide with absolute surprise. “B-But, My King-“

“Bite your tongue, you cowardly simpleton. Leave my Palace. Do not come back, or else you _will_ be banished.” The King’s hand loosens on the Soother’s robes, and pushes him back, causing him to fall to the floor. He turns and begins to walk without even looking back.

Grimm watches the scene with a putrid sense of satisfaction, and finds himself torn between following the King back into the Palace and staying to watch the reaction of the humiliated mage before him. Sighing delicately and narrowing his eyes, he retreats down the trunk of the tree, glaring blatantly over a gnarled root as the Soul Soother jerks his eyes to the shaking branch. Treachery crossed his mind, for a split second, but he dismissed it upon the sickeningly sweet victory of terror that filled the bug's face. He narrowed his eyes dangerously before darting off to follow the King, too fast to properly track with mortal eyes.

The King marches his way all the way back down into his work room, kicking any empty mould armor that happens to get in the way, snatching a jar of Void off of the counter, disregarding it’s vile thrashing and growls of protest. He undoes the lid and shoves the necklace into the bleak shadows, watching with a keen, trembling gaze as it is consumed and torn apart. Grimm reforms, shivering slightly, in a small cloud of red which quickly snuff themselves out. He watches the King silently, letting him do as he wishes with the cursed amulet. Such a dreadful thing to happen. Such a horrible way to go.

“...The insolence...The gall...It makes me sick.” The King’s voice is soft, dripping with cold-blooded rage. “To think that mortals under my care could betray me so...”

Grimm silently walks toward him, keeping an eye on his movements for any sign of that turbulent sea breaking through the dams that had been so perfectly poked through with holes. He pauses within arm's reach, hesitantly raising a hand toward him. He halts himself, then reaches again and gently takes hold of the jar, fingertips just barely brushing the King's own. "No need to leave this open for so long."

The King blinks at the sight of Grimm’s fingertips, and his hand slowly lets go of the jar, and he turns away, his expression hidden, saying nothing. He lifts his hands up, staring at them, at the darkened, stained shell of his fingertips, before he clenches them. “...He won’t stop.”

"I can haunt his nightmares for you if you want." He screws the lid onto the jar without watching his hands, eyes scanning the ceiling as if he could find and pick out the bug's bed from this far removed from society. "Wouldn't be much of a problem, if I'm honest. I just need to find him once, and then he'll never have a pleasant night's rest ever again."

“That will only make it worse, I fear. I could see it in his eyes; his determination is as vast as his ambition, and it will only serve to make it deadlier. I do not know what he will do, but all I know is that he will intend to do it regardless. My words merely sealed his fate.”

Grimm huffs, placing the jar on the King's desk and crouching, arms crossing on the edge of the surface as he watches the Void writhe within. "I figured as much, but I was hoping you'd allow me anyways. That creature has no sense of respect."

“Clearly.” He lets out a heavy sigh, his hands moving to rub at his forehead. “...I suspect my absence from the rest of the kingdom is rather...detrimental. Perhaps I should step out, to try and ease the worries of those who are..still safe.”

"You do spend a lot of time down here." Grimm shifts slightly, looking up at him. "Now that I think about it, I haven't seen you leave since I got here. When was the last time you left the Palace?"

There was a moment of silence. “...Not since the plague began to surface, which was around...2 months ago.”

"Two _months_?" Grimm's spine straightens, eyes almost perfectly circular with how wide they are. "H-how do you - what-?" The words die in his throat, a hoarse whisper of air that failed to take any coherent form.

The King turns to glance at him, and he raises his brow in silent befuddlement.

The look makes Grimm squint for a moment, moving his arms to firmly grasp the edge of the desk, tilting back a bit as he tries to process what he was hearing and seeing. "Do you... the others weren't... they weren't _worried_ , even though it was the first time they'd seen you in _months_. Do you... do this a lot?"

“..Yes? There’s a reason I have Lurien’s Reports, Grimm. They allow me to look over and assess everything throughout the kingdom and deal with anything noteworthy or urgent when I’m in my Palace.”

"But..." There's a long moment of Grimm not moving, completely still in his awkward little position holding onto the desk and hunched, and it seems like the sudden realization has made his mind grind to a stop. Then he tilts his head almost ninety degrees and blinks, as if all the little curiosities he had been noticing but not quite seeing were falling into place around him. "Huh."

“...Why is this so surprising to you?”

He looks ahead of him again, staying silent. His legs stretch out and he swings himself upright again, somehow making the motion appear as if gravity was momentarily working for him instead of against him. "I suppose it _shouldn't_. You've always been a homebody. But I guess it is just... very different from how I work. I was trying to imagine what my kin would do if I were to seemingly disappear. It would be pandemonium within a day, easy."

The King’s expression sharpens for a moment. “..Kin? What do you mean by kin?”

He waves a hand. "Just a change in vocabulary. You have citizens, I have kin. Happened in the last century or so."

“But “kin” usually implies blood relations, does it not?”

"You would think so, but I recently found out that bugs have a tendency of... how did they put it? Choosing their own family when their blood relatives fail them."

The King tilts his head, and for a moment he says nothing. “I see.” He turns away, then pauses. “Perhaps you can go and visit your kin then, while I attend to soothing the fears of the public. I assume things on your end have been...hectic while you’re here.”

"Oh, er, I-" He catches himself and looks aside, a more troubled expression crossing his face. "Yes.... That would be much appreciated."

“If there have been any incidents, please do give my apologies to your kin.” The King doesn’t even look at him, grabbing a scroll along with a quill and starting to write.

"Oh, no, I'm sure things have been fine. The worst that could happen is someone burning Divine's dinner again." He trails off a little, considering the idea, then shakes his head to bring himself back to the present. "When do you plan on taking your leave?"

“..Possibly tomorrow. I’d rather not waste time.”

"Hm. Good." He walks over to the King. "So what is this about?"

The King tenses for a moment before his shoulders hunch, visibly trying to shield it from his line of sight. “I would rather not have you breathing down my neck, Grimm.”

"Hm? Oh." He notes the closeness of their shoulders and steps back. "Apologies. Still need to work on that, apparently." He shifts after a moment. "Well, if you have no need of me, may I take my leave now? I know it's quite a bit early, but...."

The King’s posture instantly relaxes, and he turns to face him. “I’m certain nothing will occur. If you feel the matter is urgent, I expect nothing less than for you to attend to it.”

"Of course, Your Highness." He bows. "How long may I have?"

“As long as you need. You’re not a prisoner, Grimm.”

He blinks at that, watching him from his pose for a moment before relaxing and straightening himself. "Of course. I'll make sure to return when I can."

With that, he disappears into what could only be described as a puff of smoke, causing the King to briefly lift up his arm to act as a shield, coughing ever so slightly. “Ergh...Of course the one thing he kept was his dramatics...”

Grumbling, the King waves the cloud away and moves to return to his work. He hesitates, though. His paper... well, his paper was entirely the same, but the ink seemed dotted with greyish... sand? He lifts his hand to brush it away, figuring it was just the dust from the stagnation of the room that got stirred up from the smog, but then notices how the same sand was now caking his robes, and his eyes narrow. He slowly wipes off a trail of it from his sleeve, rubs it between his fingers. It didn’t feel as gritty as sand, nor was it soft. It felt more like..ashes than anything.

Ash. Hm. He could count on one hand the number of places where ash was plentiful, and most he could rule out just by virtue of knowing what that ash was and what precisely it looked like. And while the Nightmare King played with fire plenty, his magic didn't usually produce any sooty byproducts. He narrows his eyes, staring at it, staring for a long moment, before his eyes drift to another Void jar. He snatches it without a second thought, his hand now proceeding to push the ashes on the table into a neat little pile. He unscrews the lid, puts the lip of the jar against the edge of the table, and with a flick of the wrist, pushes the pile of ashes inside. He sets his paper aside and sits the jar in front of him, hunkering down for the moment to watch the resulting reaction. If this is what he thinks it is, then he'd be in for quite the interesting combination.

 

••••

The wind whips and clatters, a foul emptiness filling the surroundings and dampening what precious light spread from points unknown. Grimm squints amidst the small bits of dirt disturbed by the eternal dancing of the breeze, and turns until he spots the fuzzy red just a little ways away. They must have moved camp since the last time he'd seen them. He wonders if they had a proper reason to do so, or if they had merely bickered about the difference a few meters would result in. The thought brings a smile to his face. His kin might be bumbling idiots at times, but they were _his_ bumbling idiots. He strides toward his light.

It wasn’t long until the slow, steady accordion music reaches his ears, no doubt being played by Brumm, and even with him absent, it looked as if there had been plenty of activity; footsteps were lining the sands and dirt as a sort of makeshift road, looking to be going both toward and away from the glowing campsite. There didn’t seem to be anybody outside at the moment, though he was sure that would change once he got close enough. He almost smirked when he heard and felt them notice his arrival. The music swelled and hastened, the steads, huddled within one of the tents to fend off the pelting sands, undoubtedly raised their heads at the slightest shift in atmospheric pressure, and a few exclamations of victory peeled out as the storm gradually split away from the camp's borders. He took in a deep breath, relishing the strength that came with rejoining so many flames into one being.

It wasn’t long before the music had stopped and Brumm had come practically sprinting out of the main tent, his eyes wide with relief and shock under his mask as he skids to a stop in front of Grimm, immediately descending into a bow, his voice gruff, yet filled with emotion. “Mrmm! M-Master, you’ve returned at last!”

"Mm. So it seems, yes." He tilts his head forward, eyes crinkling in that nonchalant giddiness that he had so long ago perfected. "I must apologize for being away for so long, though I am glad to see none of you set the place ablaze in my absence."

“Believe me, Master, some of us have tried. Kehehehehe..” Divine’s head peeks out of the main tent, letting her wide, unnerving grin curl across her face as she slowly walks along the dirt towards him, her many legs skittering across the ground like a centipede.

"Oh, I wouldn't expect any less of you all, especially someone as conniving as yourself, Miss Divine." He gently takes one of her claws and faux kisses it in greeting. "I hope you kept your appetite in check for our guests while in my absence."

“Oh, I’ve been trying. But it’s so hard sometimes; they look soooo tasty.” She licks her lips and chortles to herself again. “Sometimes I wonder if I’ll be able to help myself!”

Brumm immediately gives her a stern look, standing up to give her a sideways glare. “Mrmm. I had to wrestle her away from at least 3 guests, Master.”

“Oh, you’re exaggerating. It was at least 4.”

“Mrm! Must you be so difficult? You’d anger the Master if he found out you so much as took a bite out of a guest, and yet here you are trying to eat them!”

“It’s my nature, darling. I can’t fight it.”

“Mrm. I disagree strongly, you miserable cretin.” He huffs, his fur bristling.

"Hush, hush." Grimm raises a hand placatingly, amused at their squabbling. "Nothing will come from arguing like this. We've all been here plenty of times in the past, so we all know you're both wrong _and_ right. Although..." He pulls his hand back, leaning slightly closer to Divine, an almost worried look on his face. "Four is a little more than usual. We aren't running low on anything, are we?"

Divine’s grin does sour a bit, and she nods. “Yeah..We didn’t intend to run out of most of the food, but your child had found where Mr. Idiot over here had kept it.” She jerks a claw at Brumm, who immediately bristles harder.

“MRM! How was I supposed to know the Master’s child would do such a thing?!”

“You babysit it when he’s gone, you absolute dolt.”

"They're eating more?" He could barely keep his excitement from his voice, let alone his feet firmly planted on the ground. He clasps his hands together, grinning widely. "Ooh, that's good news. Not for our supplies, but definitely for the child! I'll make sure to find more in a little bit but for now I need to find them." He brushes past them, making soft clicking noises as he looks around the camp, lifting chest lids and tarps as he goes. "Oh, Little Grimmy? Poppy's home!"

“NYAH!” That was all the warning Grimm got before a very familiar, very fast blur flashes over his vision before his face is obscured by darkness. Purring and happy squeaking fills his ears as the face of his precious child nuzzles against his own, it’s little wings currently wrapped around his head.

"Oh my-!" He laughs, stumbling for a moment as he rights himself, purring in kind at having his child safe and near. He gently brings his hands to the Grimmchild's back and wings, working to slowly pry them from his face. "Heheheh. I see we're both eager to see each other again, aren't we, youngling?"

“Nyah!” It squeaks happily in response, playfully squirming in his hands, it’s jaw snapping down on his thumb in which it gently starts chewing, not actually intending to hurt him.

Brumm slowly walks up to Grimm, looking almost nervous. “Mrm..M-Master, I hate to interrupt but...I have to ask. Where did you go?”

"Hmm?" He unhooks one wing from one side of his face, peering down at him with the one eye available. The hand currently held captive by the child summons a small ball of fire, twirling it in curious figures between his fingers. "Oh, an old acquaintance of mine needed my help with something. Do you remember that Wyrm from some time ago? Shed his skin to walk amongst mortals?"

Brumm stares for a moment before he nods, his expression turning troubled, shoulders hunching. “Mrm. Yes, I do. That encounter was most awful. I was convinced we were done for.”

"Ha! Oh, Brumm, we've come a long way from that. Did you really doubt my capabilities with multiple tongues?" His eyes crinkle with amusement, even as he gently fights to remove the Grimmchild from his face. Claws sink in as he tries to move them and he makes a small yelp and bends down to Brumm's height. "Actually, nevermind an answer. Would you help me with our child? Their claws seem to have grown while I was gone."

“Oh, uh, of course. Mrm.” He gently reaches up in an effort to pry the biting child’s claws away from his Master’s face, and with a sudden flash of black, the child was now enveloping Brumm’s, causing the musician to let out a slight yelp as he tumbles to the ground.

Grimm gasps, eyes wide and practically sparkling in the fiery light of the circus. "They've learned how to _teleport_!" He claps his hands to his face, bouncing in place a few times before collecting himself and offering a hand to Brumm, the other carefully pinching just behind the child's neck. "Oh, come now, my child. Personal space is something everyone need learn."

The Child lets out an irritated growl but lets go the moment they feel that pinch, and Brumm hastily sits up, adjusting his mask as it had been knocked askew, fur bristling slightly. “Mrm...” He looks back up at his Master, now looking confused. “..Wait, you encountered the Wyrm again? H-How? You had..simply vanished from the camp.”

Grimm hums happily, holding the Child with both hands, one thumb stroking under their chin. He almost didn't hear Brumm, but their previous conversation returned to him. "Oh, yes. He's come upon a bit of a rough spot. Rough enough to summon me, actually." The memory of the sudden call sobers him somewhat. It wasn't often anyone called him like that. In fact, it had been well over a century since the last call. He pulls Grimmchild to his chest, letting them nestle up against his cloak and neck. "There's been a... plague, of sorts. The Pale King - that's his name these days - has found his magic falling a bit short of curing it, so he's enlisted my help.

“Mrm...The Pale King, you say...The name sounds familiar, somehow. Perhaps I heard word of it from the mouths of travelers.” He gets up to his feet, and his expression turns to that of confusion. “..Does he still wish for your assistance?”

"Yes. I'll have to return to help him." He frowns as the Child whines and strokes their head gently. "I know, I know. I'd bring you if it were safer. It tears at me to be apart so." He looks back to Brumm. "The King has been kind enough to not set a date for my return. The infection running in his kingdom is quite... worrisome, and he's been rather stubborn in trying to fix it. I'm honestly surprised he didn't fight for more strict rules. Not that I'm complaining, of course." He grins back at the Child clinging to him, chest rumbling in that curious way only Grimm could manage.

“Mrm. Master, forgive me for speaking out of turn, but If this Wyrm has become a King...How do we know this is not..some trick? A Wyrm is no God. It is something...different. We have no idea what this could mean.”

"Hm. I suppose so." He watches the Grimmchild's eyes close, not quite sleeping but rather relaxing, and something sorrowful crosses his face. "If it's a trick, it's an elaborate one. He would have had to...." He frowns more, certain his hesitancy would set a wedge in his clan's trust. "I've seen the illness up close, multiple times. I'd like to explain it, but I fear telling it in full would put the safety of our Troupe at risk."

Brumm’s expression immediately turns alarmed, and he immediately tenses. “Mrm! What makes you say that, Master?”

"The nature of the illness." He gestures softly for Brumm to join him in his personal tent. It was somewhat bigger than the others', but only to fit two, plus the occasional visitor or three. "It's not a natural one, but rather made."

Brumm’s eyes flick to the tent in question, and he quickly begins to walk towards it, his shoulders hunched, his eyes kept downward, lifting the flap for Grimm first before walking in himself. “Made? Mrm, how so?”

"To answer that is to say too much." He nods gently at the kind gesture, moving to his roosting grounds and sitting crosslegged beneath it. He felt the Grimmchild relax a smidge more at the familiar surroundings. "I have no reason to assume the affliction could spread here, but I want to leave as little room for doubt as possible. That being said, promise me, Brumm, that you will not think on what I say tonight while outside of conversation with me. There is danger in this. I do not wish you pulled into the trouble anymore than we already are."

Brumm settles down next to Grimm, staring up at his Master with a look of worried confusion, and it was clear the gears were turning within his mind, turning harder and harder with each word. It was clear he wanted to question, wanted to say more, but duty held his tongue fast. “..I..Master...” His words lose effort, and he looks downwards.

"I know. I know." He turns his own gaze back to their Child. They were beginning to doze off now. "I'll tell you all eventually, but we - the Pale King and I - we're still learning how precisely this plague spreads. I have reason to believe I can shield you from it, but I want to make sure first. Plus, since you're so suspicious these days, more reconnaissance does mean weeding out potential threats." Grimm smirks at his lieutenant, leaning closer amicably for means of conspiracy.

Brumm’s cheeks flush a soft red from the closeness, and his eyes dart away, his hands clenching together in an attempt to steel his nerves. “R-Right, Master. Mrm. I understand.”

He chuckles softly, holding himself back for the sake of the Child's rest, and leans back to that more comfortable distance. "You've done impeccably well keeping everything in order during my unexpected leave. I hope I didn't cause any unnecessary stress on your part."

Brumm goes silent for a minute, clearing his throat, his palms squeezing in tune to a silent rhythm. “There was...a slight bit of stress, I will admit. Mrm. I..couldn’t help but panic. I had begun to suspect that the Nightmare Heart had finally ceased to beat.”

"I should have left a note of some kind." He sighs lightly. "I acted impulsively, and that was irresponsible on my part. It won't happen again, I promise."

“Mrm..M-Master, please do not blame yourself. You couldn’t have known the Wyrm would wrench you from your camping ground. It wasn’t your fault.”

"Such a call does pull, but it pulls slowly, and then fast. I recognized it before he could finish the summoning, but was much too amused by its archaism to consider my troupe." He shrugs his unoccupied shoulder. "Mistakes are how we learn. There's no shame in admitting them. If there were, our routines would be terrible, I imagine."

“..Mrm..I understand.” He lets out a sigh, and his head turns downwards.

"You should find yourself some rest. I can only imagine how busy you've been, between everyday chores, this little one's shenanigans, and holding Divine back from customers." His amusement creeps back into his voice, and he scratches the Grimmchild's head as they murmur at being mentioned. "You've done much more than I could have asked you to."

Brumm looks up at him, and his face turns almost sheepish. “Mrm...There is no need for flattery, Master...”

"This isn't flattery; it's truth. You're particularly dedicated, and I don't tell you enough."

Brumm stares, before he nods softly, and it was clear that he was grinning beneath his mask. “..Thank you, Master.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be prepared, this is gonna be a long one. 
> 
> TW: Stabbing, blood, mind control, implied execution.

The King had to admit to himself, privately, that the cold, wet air of the caverns was a definite respite from the stale, dusty smog of his workplace, though he was sure if Grimm heard him say such things, he would never hear the end of it. His hands clenched and unclenched around the fabric of his robes in a soft and subtle twitching motion, while his tail flicked to and fro, and despite his appreciation for the air and the way it felt whistling through his lungs, the rest of his body felt tense, prickly, agitated, like thousands of little needles being slowly pushed between the slits in his shell, and he wasn’t sure it would ever stop. He lets himself take a deep breath in an effort to relieve some of the stress, only for that breath to stifle slightly upon feeling his shoulder getting nudged by a prodding elbow. He blinks once, twice, before turning his head to look at the companion to his left. “Oh..So sorry, Ogrim. I was a little lost in thought. Did you say something?”

Ogrim’s face always seemed to have some form of smile, and even now was no exception, his eyes crinkling up in a joyful expression that never failed to make him feel a slight more at ease. “Hoho, now what did I tell you, My King? No getting lost in your thoughts! That is not the purpose of today, no no!” He gives the King another nudge, this time a bit more teasing. “Better not do that again, lest I have to knock those pesky thoughts away from your crown! Hohoho!”

The King’s chuckle was barely there, sputtering and dying mere seconds after it left his lips, but it was there all the same, and he nods. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you, Ogrim.”

"Oh, moh King, our Ogh'rom is quite right." A simple, delicate being, whose face was hidden behind curtains of what could only be described as hair, peaks out from the other side of the jovial beetle. If it weren't for her tone, light and airy with a touch of contagious humor, he would have thought she was more serious. "This may be a hike for you, for more reasons than one, moh cher', but the trek would be worth it, for the kingdom to smile again. To see you about is an honor, and it is very much our own, me'hon. Espes'ially if your sense could fall among ouhr, and laughter come for a little while."

“Though I would try to keep Dryya from any jokes; her sense of humor is about as dry as the damn Wastelands.” The echoing voice of Hegemol beneath his steel visage is warm, full of a teasing lilt, and he audibly muffles a chuckle at his own little quip.

The rigid stance of the most silent Knight grows somehow even stiffer, and her voice is a soft, annoyed growl. “Are you saying I don’t know how to make a joke?”

“I’m saying you’re an awful person to tell jokes to.”

“A foolish accusation.”

“What do you call a Tik-Tik with no eyes?”

She visibly sighs, and for a moment, the clenched grip on her nail softens. “What?”

“Blind.”

There were several resulting snickers and chortles, and even King had to keep his lips from curling upwards, but Dryya remains silent, as still as a stone. Hegemol huffs, and points a finger in her direction. “See? Nothing.”

“It wasn’t funny.”

“Says you.”

“A bug that small born blind would just die. Possibly devoured by it’s own mother as an egg.”

“Really the life of the party today, huh?”

"Now, now, Hegemol." The tiniest of the group raps on the plating of his stomach. "We all know we'd be nowhere if not for Dryya. Such a group of jokesters would never be able to keep such a focused mind with our duties." She chuckles and walks up to the Knight in question, clasping her hands together and leaning a little closer to her in an amicable, teasing way. "Though such a focused mind often leads to wearing oneself out, and ultimately losing focus anyways." Isma winks at her, one set of her six eyes closing in unison. "I hope you enjoy the scenery while we're out here."

Dryya’s stance goes stiff for a moment upon hearing Isma’s words, before she simply sighs and goes the slightest bit lax, her shoulders dropping. “Very well. I’ll try my best.”

Ogrim immediately lets out a laugh, nudging the King once again in the arm, pointing at Dryya’s figure with his free talon. “Ohoho! The wonderful Isma has done it again! Did the impossible one would say!”

“Quite the achievement indeed.” The King couldn’t help but mumble softly, trying to muster up a soft attempt at joining in the camaraderie, though it felt a touch off, almost awkward.

A white tendril of light comes down to give Ogrim a soft flick to the antenna, though without any actual malice, and the White Lady’s head cranes down to join in on the commotion. “Hush, hush, please. I would rather avoid disturbing those that are in mourning. We are nearly upon our first destination.” Her head swivels toward Ze’mer. “Dearest, did you bring the flowers?”

Ze'mer's own tendrils droop slightly, and she nods, pulling a bundle of flowers from under her cloak. "Yes, moh Lady. As many as che' could carry without harming a petal. Most of the year's crop." Her head turns away from the group, toward a growing humidity of another nature. "Che' hopes the token does not go unnoticed."

The other Knights fall mostly silent, and the King lifts his head to gaze upon what he had to see. The first set of graves, marked with only slabs of stone, surrounded with candles, was a sight so solemn and yet so empty, was enough to make his hands clench once more, harder than before. Everyone went silent, and the gentle sounds of the cave’s ambience was all that filled his mind, before he turned to Ze’mer and held his hand out for a flower.

She gently, slowly, delicately, silently places a singular flower between his fingers. "Remember to be careful, moh King. The slightest tense...." The memory of first seeing her garden reaches him.  _ The heart clenches, but to offer this is to allow another's relief, and then, with probability, your own. Such catharsis is not meant for one to hold. _

He stares down at the petals for a moment, beautiful and glorious while also so easily snuffed out, and then nods in thanks. He turns to walk toward the first grave he can see, no name to be etched upon the grey slate of stone, and he can feel the eyes on him, watching him, staring at him, not just his Knights and Lady, but also the gazes of all those who had passed.

He quietly bends down on one knee and places the flower upon the dirt, taking great care to not bend a single petal. “...May your soul last eternal.”

The words are soft, but they still echo slightly in the cavernous room, reaching the bugs both near and distanced, and the pain of the words easily filters into those watching. A sister who had come to pay tribute to their fallen sibling rubs an eye, a tired awe about her as she watches their King honor an unnamed and virtually forgotten bug. The five knights and the White Lady watch somberly, and none move except Ze'mer, who approaches with another flower held silently in her fingers.

One by one, with soft prayers and momentary bouts of silence to honor those that filled the graves before them, the Flowers all found their resting places atop the fresh soil. The King’s head lifted to observe what he could see, of the few citizens that still knelt and grieved and weeped next to the cold unmoving stones, and he takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly as he moves to another patch of graves. These ones were much more decorated, said decorations varying depending on said grave; precious jewelry such as necklaces or rings strewn about the dirt, picture frames displaying smiling faces carefully surrounding the tombstone, and, for one particularly small grave, a plush toy of a Crawlid. The sight of such makes his heart clench, his shoulders trembling for just a moment, and he kneels down in front of it to read the name:  _ Tula, the sweetest baby girl who ever lived _ .

The knights themselves appeared to have difficulty seeing each grave, especially those smaller ones like Tula's. Ogrim wiped away tears before they could properly fall, Dryya intently studied the content of the soil beneath her feet, Hegemol was uncharacteristically quiet, and Isma let tears roll freely from her eyes, hands clasped gently in front of her. Ze'mer remained physically unmoved, though anyone who knew her would know it was out of preserving the flowers still hidden beneath her cloak. Each offer of another flower was gentler than the last, and here, seeing the King hesitate again, she kneels beside him, holding out a new blossom.

"Another, moh King."

“...Thank you...” His voice was softer than it used to be, almost hoarse, strained, and his claws shook like mad when he went to take the flower. One little twitch of his traitorous fingers is all it took, and several petals crumple and fall. His eyes burn, and he can barely suppress the urge to curse, merely making a strangled noise in his throat, crushing the rest of the flower as he clenches his fists. He almost stumbles to his feet, straightening, turning away before muttering under his breath, quietly, softly. “...I’m sorry.”

He moves to stand to the side, hands clenching and unclenching so hard he could feel the shell of his palms creaking and squeaking with strain. His heart was hammering, his ears ringing, and his throat felt as if that knife was still buried in it, denying him breath. A soft touch meets his shoulder, shortly followed by a hand covering one of his own. "My love..."

Words were unnecessary for that split second, as his Queen lends some strength, grounding him in the moment. A gentle brush of her thumb relaxes his hands enough for them to lock fingers. Another second passes, and the hand on his shoulder leaves for a moment before returning in front of him, another paper thing, glass-like flower held between her fingers. "Ze'mer has more to give. Breathe deeply."

The feeling of his Lady so close, the feeling of her warm touch and gentle voice is enough, and he finally finds the strength to open up his mouth and take in a deep, deep breath, the cold, moist texture of the air chasing away the burning heat of his blood, of his eyes. He concentrates, concentrates on the air on his tongue, the feeling of his love so close, the sight of the Flower petals staring up at him with a soft, heavenly glow, and slowly reaches out to take it. There is no longer a shake to his hands, nor is there the feeling of his throat being crushed, and he turns back around to face the grave, pausing upon seeing two fully grown ladybugs standing next to it, clutching each other’s hands as they lean together for comfort, their dreary, puffy eyes watching him with a look of faint awe and grief.

He stares for a moment, before slowly making his way over to them, eyes flickering to the plush toy for only a scant second. He carefully maneuvers the Flower into one of his hands, cupping it by the petals and leaving the stem to hang free between his fingers, and holds it out in offering, his voice soft, but not strained. “...Would you like to give her this? I had planned to do it myself, but I want to give you the choice.”

A fresh set of tears fill their eyes, and it takes a moment for them to collect themselves long enough to nod and stammer out, "Th-thank you, My King." One takes the flower, careful to mimic his own carefulness, and manages to gently lay the flower in the center of her grave. They try to mumble something else, more appreciation, something close to  _ eternal gratitude _ slipping past one of their lips, but their voices tremble and tighten and a sob wrecks the rest of the sentence.

The King feels his heart wobble at such a sight, his body giving off a slight tremble of tension and suppression before he simply turns to face the grave and kneels down, placing his hand upon the tombstone and bowing his head. “...May your soul last eternal...” His eyes flick to the plush, and he slowly picks it up, the toy small enough to fit in his palm. He glances up at the parents, his words soft. “..This was her toy, yes?”

They nod, a ghost of a smile filling their faces. "She played with it every day, slept with it every night. She loved it so much."

“Do you wish to leave it here? Or do you plan to take it with you?”

"Leave it here. She needs it more than we do." They rub their eyes, still sniffling.

His eyes flick down to the plush, and he stares at it for a moment, before lifting his free hand, letting his finger start to glow with his own divine light. He begins to draw bright white runes upon the fur of the plush, careful to not burn it or tear the precious fabric, before snapping his fingers. The runes flash once, twice, before fading away, and the King places the toy back onto the soil. “..I’ve placed a small enchantment. It should no longer be susceptible to decay, or damage. Your daughter will have her toy forever.”

More tears well up in their eyes, but they manage to brush them aside and smile. "Thank you, My King. We could never repay you."

He rises to his feet, and turns to them, shaking his head. “Please, there is no need to. I only ask that you continue to live as best as you can.”

They nod, and a small hiccup escapes one of them. "We - we will, My King. For you as well as her."

He feels his organs squirm and clench in a sour motion, a moment of pity clashing with something he could not perceive, and for a moment, he feels tempted to rebuke the two who so desperately feel the need to live for his sake, but decides it would be best to simply let them go on their way. He simply nods, softly, and turns away, shoulders hunching ever so slightly as he mutters quietly into the open air. “Thank you...My condolences.”

He walks back toward his Knights, towards his Lady, his heart feeling as if it was heavier than it used to be. Ze'mer hands him yet another flower, the others offering quiet nods of encouragement for the soon to come encounters with the still-grieving.

With each new set of graves they passed, more and more Flowers were gifted, distributed to the families and friends of the dead for them to lay upon their tombs. The King did his best to provide his blessings, his enchantments, his prayers for the lost to have peace and for the objects left behind to remain with them. The Knights did their best to aid in helping spread the flowers, even Ogrim who possessed no hands to hold them with, and the Lady began to tinker with the soil around them, in hopes of allowing the flowers a proper place to grow.

Eventually, and at length, Ze'mer murmurs to the King, "That would be all che's flowers. The deed here is... done. For now." Her words warble, and she lifts a hand to hide her face, visibly trembling now that she is free of the Delicate Flowers. " _ Wai.... _ ”

Isma gently puts a hand on her side, wiping some of her own tears away. "Perhaps now would be a good time to speak with the Seer, my King, while we are in the neighborhood."

The King turns his head from where he was gazing around at the now glowing landscape of graves and flowers, and nods, softly, letting out a heavy sigh, lifting a hand up to rub at his forehead. “The Seer...Yes, yes, of course...” He pauses for a moment. “Do any of you need a moment to collect yourselves?”

Ogrim was visibly wiping away his tears, though he shakes his head, his voice slightly choked. “No, no...I am...I am fine.”

Hegemol doesn’t answer, but the sound of sniffling and strangled crying is heard from within the helmet.

Dryya nods, gently but awkwardly patting Hegemol's plated arm in an imitation of Isma's comfort. "We are with you, My King."

Isma keeps her eyes on the King, managing a small smile. "Walking may help. Distance from the grieving, as bad as that sounds...."

“..I see...Come along, then, all of you.” He pauses to look at Hegemol, before slowly reaching out to place a hand on his arm as well. “I know you like the Seer’s tea...” He pauses, his words trailing off, unsure of what else to say.

There was a moment of silence, before there was a loud sniffle, and the armored Knight nods softly. “..Yeah..Yeah, ok...I’m good now.”

They turn away, leaving the grieving citizens to their family and friends, and start on the way toward the Seer's cove, Dryya occasionally scouting ahead for any new obstacles in their path. The sniffles and sobs slowly fade away, though they never quite leave in their entirety. Ogrim tries to tell a joke, but the best he gets for it is a small, barely there laugh from the White Lady.

"There's some rough terrain ahead, but nothing else, My King and Queen." Dryya fidgets with the clasp holding her nail to her hip.

“Thank you, Dryya.” The White Lady nods softly, then pauses, before a soft smile grows on her face. “Are you nervous, my dear? You usually don’t scout ahead unless you feel nervous.”

Ogrim lets out a little chuckle, and his smile slowly comes back. “..Heh. I think I know what that could be. Hoho...”

Dryya’s eyes narrow and her voice snaps in a slight hiss. “Bite your tongue, Dung Flinger.”

"Name calling isn't very nice, Dryya." A grin tugs at Isma's lips. "We all know about your inclination towards ghosts, don't we?"

The King blinks at that, turning his head to glance at Dryya with a raised brow. “Ghosts?”

Dryya’s hands clench around her sword and she huffs and looks away. “Pay no mind to it, My King. Pure nonsense.”

Isma chuckles lightly. "Dryya always gets nervous around this part of the Resting Grounds. She claims there's-"

"Isma."

"-a bad feeling around the place-"

" _ Isma _ ."

"-like that of a wandering spirit."

Before any of them could answer, there was the sound of a voice coming from a little far off and above. “If that’s an attempt at poking fun at me and my age, then it was a pathetic one.”

The King’s head lifts up in the general direction of the voice, and he can’t help but smile, softly, nodding in greeting. “Hello, Seer. It..has certainly been a while.”

The little moth lets out a huff, her antenna twitching slightly. “You could say that. Haven’t exactly had the time to check the calendar ever since this whole mess started. Come on up. I’ll get the tea started.”

They climb their way up to the old entryway of her cave, helping each other up and across a few particularly hazardous jumps and steps. They pass through the velvety, purple curtains and into the Seer's quaint, well-cushioned and well-lit home. The Seer was crouched in front of a fire, feeding it wood chunks in an effort to keep it burning while hanging a tea kettle over it, the smell of smoke strange herbs giving the small cove a soothing, pleasant effect. Dream catchers hung all around the ceiling and the entrance, sparkling and glimmering with both valuable gems and a bright, glowing light that seemed to be woven into the fibers itself, and the King couldn’t help but feel a prickling shiver run down his spine, one that he quickly suppressed.

Ogrim smiles softly as he sits down amongst the many pillows that line the floor of the cove. “This is quite the lovely little home. Very beautiful.”

Isma nods in agreement, lifting her hand to trail a finger along one of the sides of the dream catchers. “I especially love these. They look so wonderful.”

The Seer smiles at them. "Oh, thank you very much. I've put quite a bit of work into my humble abode; I'm glad you like it so much. Please, feel free to make yourselves at home. I can only imagine how weary you must be already."

“Weary can be one word for it...” Dryya mumbles to herself as she finally releases her grip on her sword and daintily sits down.

“Try exhausted.” Hegemol sighs heavily within his armor as he sits down cross-legged in front of the entrance, being too big to actually try and fit. Ze’mer said nothing, sitting silently on his knee.

“Though I am tempted to not put it so bluntly...Yes, that would be an accurate summary of how we all must feel.” White Lady herself has to hunch over, lest her head scrape the top of the cavern.

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that, though I can't say I'm surprised. This sickness going around has not been particularly pleasant, last I heard. I can only imagine how difficult it's been keeping the peace, let alone finding a cure." She prods the fire, coaxing a little more life into it for the kettle. "I imagine that has something to do with your visit today, hm?"

The King, who is the only one still standing, nods, and he lets out a heavy sigh. It seems only now, surrounded by the same horrid magic that She used to wield did he feel the exhaustion brewing deep within him, the age in his shell. His eye twitches, his hands clench, and he takes one breath, two, before speaking. “...Surely you felt the change in the air. You’ve felt the shift. The sudden awakening of something we both thought was lost forever.” He looks upwards, towards the Dreamcatchers. “...These are for your protection. They ward Her off.”

"Hmm," is all she says for the longest time, waiting a few moments for the kettle to boil and transferring the liquid to a smaller tea pot. "Yes, they protect me. I imagine they could protect others, but not as well. You should know this already, Pale King."

“Of course I do...Of course I do.” He sighs softly. “..I suppose using Essence is only a temporary protection to the infection, yes?”

"Most protections are temporary, King." She pours a cup of tea and reaches over to hand it to him. "Please, sit. You make me feel as if you're going to leave at any moment."

“I’m perfectly fine with-GAahh-!” He can’t help but yelp in surprise when he feels two strong arms suddenly hoist him up off the floor from under his arms, leaving his tail wagging around in the air. “H-Honey, please-!”

The White Lady chuckles, placing him in her lap. "You heard the Seer. This is her house; you play by her rules." One of her smaller tendrils snakes out to take the teacup, bringing it to her King. "It's rude to refuse gifts, too."

He can’t help but feel his face burn with embarrassment upon being picked up like a child, and gives his Lady a slightly sour look before begrudgingly accepting the tea. “This is official business, my love. I shouldn’t have to sit down.”

The Seer can’t help but laugh at the sight, shaking her head with amusement. “You never did learn to calm down, did you?”

“How can I stay calm when the Radiance is turning my kingdom into a festering waste of death?” His hand clenches, and the look of flustering shock quickly turns into a steely gaze of anger.

"Now then." Her tone remains chiding, and she offers another cup of tea which the Lady takes and sends back to the Hegemol. "Calling your own kingdom a 'festering waste' doesn't particularly inspire confidence, does it? Such a spiteful mind may lack the focus needed to help your people, Pale King."

“I’m not trying to inspire confidence, I’m speaking the truth. She is killing my people, using them as puppets for Her own madness, and I still have nothing solved! I don’t even know how She came back!”

"Evidently you killing Her didn't seal the deal." She pours the rest of the tea. "She managed to keep some part of Herself alive. Something you failed to see."

The cove was silent for a few moments, and the King’s expression was steely, agitated, the darkness under his eyes seeming to come into focus more than ever. “..I suppose so...My only question is how can we kill something that is already dead? We can’t. Simple as that. So, the only course is to find a way to seal away the infection. To try and block it out. To eliminate it.”

"Mm." She sips at her cup. "That would be difficult to do, but not impossible. If memory serves, it has been done before. Not for these purposes, but still done."

The King blinks at this, and his eyes narrow. “...When? How?”

"Long, long ago, perhaps before you were a Wyrm, even." She leans forward a touch, looking him over. "All I have heard are stories, ones which come from the time of Her reign. We both know how twisted they can be, though there is always a drop of truth in the mix."

The memories of days long gone flash through his head, and he grimaces, his fingers tapping on the glass of the tea cup. “...Yes...Yes, that is true. I never recalled Her mentioning a story like what you describe.”

"She was careful with you, from what  _ I _ recall. She was careful with most other gods." She sips again at her tea, and it was difficult to tell if she meant to prolong her time away from bad memories or to eat the King's time away from his citizens. "This one, who was sealed away, did it willingly. Their presence created too much mayhem for those around them to put up with, and they recognized their actions were draining the life from around them. So they separated themself, physically, and created a barrier - perhaps more of a  _ buffer _ \- between this world and their powers."

The King is quiet for a moment, his eyes narrowed in thought. “...Are you saying that a God sealed themselves away from their powers? The only beings that could hold sway over the minds of others would have to be a God.”

"That is how the story goes." She spread her hands out. "It's difficult to say how they went about doing such a thing, but the fact remains that they did. If you believe the stories, that is."

“..So all I have is false positives. Wonderful.” He sighs and rubs his forehead, clearly stressed, his voice coming off as bitterly sarcastic. “I suppose you wouldn’t have a way to to look into the past, now would you?”

She chuckles at that, a small sparkle coming to her eye. "I suppose one could call  _ archaeology _ what you are looking for, though I doubt it would be fast enough for your tastes. Though, I must say, and this is mostly conjecture on my part, but, out of curiosity, have you ever wondered what  _ made _ the Wastes the way it is?"

Everyone went still at that, and even the King’s expression seems to turn flat for a moment. “...I always assumed it was simply because Gods weren’t there to breathe life into it...Either that, or there was life, but...the Wyrms...caused it’s destruction.” His eyes dart away for a moment, and he says nothing more.

The Seer shrugs. "Again, merely conjecture on my end. I imagine the answers are too old for either of us to truly know. But one can only imagine what great lengths of chaos would make a God reign themself back with such an extreme measure. And as you said, you were a Wyrm once too, yes? From what you recall of then, what do you think would stop you from committing such destruction?"

The King’s expression twists into that of deep thought, and his hand drifts to his chin, tail idly wagging and tapping against his love’s arm. The memories of his old body, so twisted were they, so very faded, fragmented, unintelligible. He could barely make heads or tails of them sometimes; all he could really solidly grasp was the instincts that had been wired into his mind, and how frighteningly strong they were. But...But there was something else there. Something else...Something else....

“...I..I don’t...All I can remember is..red.”

"A curious color to remember in a place so bleak." The Seer sips at her tea. "I imagine it will come to you, given time. But the more important thing to keep in mind here is that whoever this Higher Being was, they, for lack of better words, split themself in two. You could say that implies a break had already existed between those halves, and they took a chisel to it to cut one fragment away."

“...Split themselves in two....” He narrows his eyes, his mind starting to work, to try and somehow fit everything together. “..A buffering of a God’s power...”

"Do keep in mind that this God  _ wanted _ this to happen. An unwilling participant might struggle against it."

“But it still could theoretically be done, yes?”

“Theoretically? Yes.”

The King takes a deep breath, a sharp one, almost a stifled one, before he takes a sharp swig of his tea, draining the cup in one go. He takes great care in putting the cup down, before rubbing over his face. His Lady’s eyes narrow softly. “Dearest, if you even think about going back to the Palace now-“

“No. No, I’m fine. It’s not....It’s not my duty right now.”

"And what is your duty now, if I may ask? It truly is rare for you to come so far from your palace." The Seer peers at him closely, noting his traveling entourage as well.

“..To attend to my people. I’ve already hidden away from them for long enough, and to call myself their God while leaving them to suffer in these times is...” He shakes his head and sighs, saying nothing else.

"Wise words. I'm glad you're doing so. To see you in public like this, for this reason, is... very nice. You could almost say healing." She grins lightly. "I suppose you cannot stay much longer, though. Hallownest is rather large, after all."

“Yes, yes it is, indeed.” He nods, and he does grow a soft smile as well. “Thank you for your time, Seer.”

"Thank you for the visit." She inclines her head. "Stay safe on your travels, Pale King."

The King stands up, carefully, slowly, as does everyone else, and he turns to approach the Seer, holding out his hand for her to take. “May your soul stay safe from the Light beyond.”

Some ounce of tenseness that had gone unnoticed in her eases at the gesture, and she reaches a hand from where she sits to shake his own. "And may your people resist the call as well."

 

••••

The moment the King stepped forth out onto the City entrance, he could tell how drastically the growing infection had changed the heart of his Kingdom, simply from the way the air smelt, they way it felt passing through his lungs. It felt...thick, strange,  _ wrong _ , crackling with a heated tension that made him feel as if he was being watched. The air no longer carried the musky scent of rain, of water, but instead, the faintest hint of something overly sweet, almost overwhelmingly tart, like that of a fermented fruit. He can’t help but clench his hands as he walked along the rain-soaked bridge, the sound of the footsteps of his most elite Knights as well as his precious Lady filling his ears. “...The infection...It’s here as well...Stronger.”

"There is a sense of... unease here." The White Lady almost imperceptibly moved closer to him, frowning as she looked around the cobblestone streets. "Usually this place is busier as well. Some of the shops appear... empty."

Dryya frowns, but doesn't follow her gaze. "There've been a few panics spread throughout the City. The infection crops up in a seemingly random way, and the people have gotten particularly nervous about it here. The guard have had to... well, some citizens go feral quicker than others. Some families have started to hold resentment for it."

“What have the guards been doing? They haven’t killed anyone have they?” The King sharply looks towards Dryya, his gaze filled with an unseen emotion.

“No, no, My King. Nothing like that!” Ogrim waves his hands in the air placatingly. “They’ve merely been...er...trying to quarantine the infected folk...They can’t exactly keep them up above where the City resides, so...They’ve been...um...” He hesitates, fearfully glancing at Ze’mer for assistance.

"The Waterways, moh King." She bows her head slightly. "They are convenient to reach, and inconvenient to get out. If an emergency were to arise, the shut off valves...."

"There's a healthy amount of doctors and guards there as well, but not enough." Isma crosses her arms. "The people are upset, for good reason, but with the infected suddenly killing others, it's.... the only way to keep the uninfected safe. Currently."

“...So the infected have been shoved into the sewer system underground...” His voice is soft, almost lacking expression, before he lets out a sigh. “If only it did not have to come to such a thing....Those poor families...” His expression shifts into a more stony look. “What have the doctors been doing to treat patients?”

"Anything they can," Hegemol says from behind. "Herbal remedies, psychiatric exercises. I've heard a few trainers were going to come by to see if certain therapies work, at least to suppress the infection longer."

“Hmm...Good, good...And the Guards? How have they been handling the civilians?”

"I..." Isma's gait slows. "...believe we're about to find out, my King."

Ahead of them, toward the city center, was a mass of people, both citizens and guards alike. What sounded like shouting began filling the air, some directive and others more irate, but it was difficult to tell who or where they were coming from. The King stares out over the crowd of bugs, the armor and nails of the guards flashing amongst the dirtied cloth and tired faces of the civilians, and he feels his heart wobble softly. He narrows his eyes, and he walks closer, wanting to see the commotion.

"Should we clear a way for you, My King?" Dryya looks to him, then back at the crowd, evidently worried about the possible rise in tensions. "If we draw enough attention, they might quiet for a moment."

“...Very well. Go ahead.” The King slowly halts in his walking, and he says nothing more.

She turns to Isma, and the two share a nod before heading toward the crowd, nails visibly sheathed and hands in a peaceable position. As they near the edge of the gathering, a few bugs turn to look, pausing in their commotion to gape at the knights. A few moments later, their gazes shift back toward where they had come, and a few blanch at the sight of their King. Isma coughs lightly into a hand, calmly addressing the bugs on the border.

"Excuse me, but prepare yourselves for a loud announcement."

Dryya gave the citizens the length of one long draw of breath before shouting, " _ By decree of the Pale King! _ "

Within sheer seconds, most of the shouting and commotion within ear shot had fallen silent, and most of the bugs, guards and citizens alike, all turn to look towards the shining figures of the King’s Royal Knights. Most of them have tears well within their eyes, while others clutch what look to be trinkets to their chests and start to pray, some even being so brazen as to try and break free of ranks to rush to the front. For a moment, all was silent.

"A pathway through this plaza must be made so our escort may pass to the western quadrant," Dryya continued, voice still loud to carry across the crowd, but not quite so booming as to damage ear drums. "The King is here, and with us-" She raised her voice as mumbling started in the crowd, a ripple of movement passing through the people. "But! We must ask for distance at this time. The King will do as he needs, and as his Knights, we will help him with those needs. Please, at this time, open a walkway approximately twenty feet, leading forward to Keln Avenue." She points in the direction desired, indicating the road signs within the plaza, eyes catching on a few guards' gazes.

For a moment, nothing happens. But then the sea of faces, of tired, hungry,  _ scared _ faces, all start to part, quietly, muttering and mumbling in hushed tones that the King himself could not pick up on. Hegemol takes the rear, while Ogrim and Ze’mer take the front, and the King forces his legs to keep moving, his body to keep walking, though he finds himself unable to resist the urge to glance at the faces of his people as he trudges his way past them. Isma and Dryya fall in alongside the King and Queen, quietly keeping pace with them, seemingly staring ahead, but surreptitiously glancing along their respective sides of the crowd. The City's center. The decision to pass through here had been argued over - all of the knights knew it to be too populated to properly guard anyone - but the need for the public to see their King had eventually won out. The risk of a stray infected individual was minimal, given the current and aforementioned accommodations, but they were still there.

A few of the soldiers who had been amongst the crowd filtered to the edges of the crowds, planting themselves in increments to ensure some measure of extra protection. Perhaps the same thought that had crossed the Knights' had crossed some of the guards'. Perhaps they were merely following protocol. There wasn’t long before the reason of the cacophony had become apparent; two guards were busy trying to hold down a thrashing, screaming husk, the infection having long since taken over, it’s weak, nubby mandibles left to gnash and it’s limbs flailing over and over in an endless struggle to break free. Most of the other guards are just nervously hovering, weapons pointed, feinting in and out in a circle of indecision, not wanting to kill it, but also trying to keep it down on the ground so it can’t hurt anyone else. Many of the civilians were trying to give the situation as wide of a berth as possible, though a scant few were visibly distraught and close to outright sobbing. The guard’s voices were loud, direct, and all directed at him.

“Stand back, My King!”

“It isn’t safe!”

“Get the legs, get the legs!”

“Watch it’s mouth!”

“Carefully!  _ Carefully _ !”

As the King passes, watching the infected bug being wrestled and held by the guards, a flare of amber flickers across its eyes and the thrashing of its limbs tosses one of the guards aside as if they were some discarded pottery. The other jerks, trying to pin the bug's freed side, but it claws at them and manages to sprint past the remaining guards before anyone can react. An unsettling hiss, disjointed and crackling, escapes from the bug, and citizens scream and shout as they dive from its path, heading directly for the newly opened path.

Directly for the  _ King _ .

Before another shout could alarm the nearest guard holding the edge of the crowd together, Isma snaps a hand out, a thin metal tube no longer than the size of her forearm extends into a staff with one deadly tip. Another moment, another dozen steps from the sprinting bug, and the tips jams between the cobblestone, sinking into the gravel and dirt below. A sprout of greenish brown erupts mere feet before the bug, splitting and catching its middle before it could evade the trap, the growth wrapping around its middle and pinning its arms to its side.

The King had seen the sudden way the mad thrashing of the infected insect had changed, had seen the flash of purpose and newly found strength within it’s eyes, and even then, he barely had time to process what had happened before the charging creature had been entangled within Isma’s trap. His eyes go wide as he finds himself staring at the frozen husk of a bug, practically frozen, almost feeling as if moving would cause all hell to break loose. The silence lasts for what feels like an eternity.

And then the bug lifts it’s head, slowly, loosely, as if the terrible disease inside it was figuring out how to puppeteer it’s deranged host, to stare at the King. It’s mandibles twisted, clicked, chattered, and then, with a hoarse, strained voice, it spoke.

“ **_FOUL WYRM....YOU WILL FALL...ALL WILL FALL..._ ** ”

Isma almost imperceptibly twists her staff, and the roots encasing the bug wrap around its mouth before another word could be uttered. A few guards collect themselves, moving to the imprisoned creature, but again hovering, unsure what they should do. Murmuring starts bubbling around the citizens - worried, panicked, confused, angry.

The King’s hands clench at the sight of the citizens, at the sight of their conflict, of their fear, and he takes a deep breath before striding closer to Isma, muttering softly to her, in hopes that no one else can hear. “Let the guards deal with it. It’s best if we move on.”

"Yes, my King." She responds in the same gentle tone, straightening and pulling her spike from the ground. The roots cease their movements, the green glow about them fading into a deep, mossy brown, and her weapon shrinks back into its unassuming cylinder. She tucks it away and clasps her hands together again. "Apologies for ruining the stonework."

The King merely sighs and moves to turn away.

“WAIT!”

He pauses and turns his head to see the face of what looks to be a little boy, his face stricken with tears. The child points a shaking hand at the bound bug, it’s empty maw still moving, still speaking in a hoarse croaking voice that cant be heard amongst the vines. His own voice is small, shaking, choked with tears. “..Th...That’s my father...He..He fell asleep a week ago and now...” There’s a moment where the child attempts to contain himself. “..C..Can you help him? Please? M-My mom said you can-can do anything and...”

The King is silent, for he has no idea what to say, his blood chilling to ice, his hands starting to shake. His tongue is as useless as rubber, and any attempts to think dissolve into dust the moment he sees the tears falling down the child’s face.

"Your mother must be a very smart person, dear." That same hand that had saved him in the Resting Grounds touches his back, and the child's eyes move up above him. "Our King is working tirelessly on a cure to help your father and other bugs like him. I promise you, everything is being done. It's only a matter of time."

“B-But isn’t the King supposed to be super strong? He-He created this whole place, so-so why can’t he cure my father?” The child sniffles sharply, just barely holding it together. The crowd watching this start to shift and mutter, their gazes boring into the King’s shell like red-hot swords, burning, scorching, and he swears he feels his eyes begin to blur.

"My child," the White Lady murmurs, though her voice is never quite a murmur and quite enough people can hear her over the din of the city and the struggling bug. She kneels down to him, brushing a tear away. "The King is very strong, yes. Nothing surpasses him. But some things take time, and this is, sadly, one of them. In order to fix something, you must know what needs fixing, yes? The kind of fixing your father needs is very delicate work, and the consequences of rushing such work are high." She gently holds the child's face, returning their gaze as it falls to the streets. "Have you ever been to a doctor's?"

"Y-yes...?"

"Then you know it would be very bad if they were to treat you with the wrong medicine, don't you?"

"Yes..."

"The King needs time to find the right medicine for this illness, little one. It wouldn't do to rush Him and risk making things worse." The Lady swipes away fresh tears. "I know, little one, I know. Things are very difficult as they are. But I can see strength in you yet."

The child is silent for a few moments, before he slowly takes a deep breath, sniffling hard as he lifts his hands to rub at his eyes. “..Ok...Ok...B-But promise me that you’ll give us the medicine the moment it’s done. P-Please?”

"I promise," she says, and it's a lie, a truth, and a dodge all in one. But it works as needed, and the child smiles, albeit shakily, and the crowd eases and ceases whispering. There was a moment of silence before the King continues to walk, his head bowed, his posture stiff, shoulders hunched, the sound of armored footsteps and eternal downpour filling his ears. It’s only when the King reaches up to touch his face does he realize that his cheeks are soaked, yet he cannot tell if they are of the rain or simply his own tears. His hand is shaking, and his breathing is tight.

His Queen's hand finds his back again, and their entourage offers a slight bit of room. "Deep breaths, my dear. Deep breaths."

“...It’s hard...” His voice is a meek whisper, a crackling wheeze, and it horrifies him to hear it as such.

"We can take a break if you need to. There's no one nearby as of present." She rubs gentle circles over his shoulders, brushing her free hand over one of his own.

“..No...No...” He shuts his eyes, squeezes his love’s hand tight, and forces his throat to expand, to take in air. In and out, in and out, over and over, until he feels the life breathe itself back into his limbs. He sags against his Lady, his legs almost buckling from how shaky they had become, and he starts to cough, harshly.

She holds him, supporting him perhaps a touch too much for her liking. "My dear... Please take a break. The roads won't vanish anytime soon, and you've been pressing yourself much to hard as of late. A few minutes, please."

“...The people...I’ve stayed away for too long....They...need me...”

"The people need you alive and well, my King." She stops walking, holding him by the waist and cheek, and makes him look her in the eyes. "Breathe with me, now. In... out.... In... out...."

His hands cling to her, grip her clothes feebly, like that of a scared child, and he concentrates, concentrates hard, his shell beginning to glow as his magic starts to flow, blending and flowing with her own. His breathing starts to deepen, his head, once thunderous and muddled with his own heartbeat, starts to clear. His eyes fill with tears, burning, his body feeling shackled, heavy, weighed down, and he says nothing. He just keeps breathing. Arms wrap around him, holding him closer and shielding him from the sight of others. She presses her forehead to his, calmly continuing the breathing exercise, refusing, in that moment, to acknowledge the shaking of his body or the slightest hint of a hiccup.

The Knights all silently form a circle, shielding the two as best they can from sight. No words are said. None are needed.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the King slowly pulls himself away, breathing heavy, but steadily, sniffling once or twice before he rubs his eyes. “..My apologies, my love...I..did not mean to...”

"Never," and her words are firm as she rubs a tear from his cheek, "apologize for things like this. We all have moments of weakness. They are not something to be ashamed of."

“..Right, of course...” He lets out a shaky sigh, and takes a moment to just lean into her hand, soaking up the feeling of her touch, before finally pulling away, taking a moment to adjust his robes.

Ogrim is the first of the Knights to speak. “Do not worry, My King...It..It will be alright in the end. You’ll see.”

"Yes, moh King." Ze'mer looks over her shoulder at him for just a moment. "Solutions take time. It is only proper to grieve until the solution is found."

The White Lady smiles, humming softly and falling into place by the Pale King's side. "Such wise Knights we have. Hear their words, and heed them too. They weren't  _ merely _ picked for battle prowess, were they?"

At first, he says nothing, but he slowly nods, and the softest whisper of a smile graced his face. “Hm...That is true....”

"Let's continue our walk, then. I imagine getting out of this rain would do wonders to clear our heads. The Lake seems to be weighing heavily today, too."

“Very well...We we’re heading for Keln Avenue, yes? That leads into the lower districts...”

"Right this way, My King and Queen." Dryya nods to them and starts walking, somewhat slower than usual as the others move into their respective positions.

The march continues as if they hadn't stopped at all, and the taller buildings slowly give way to smaller, shorter, humbler abodes. As wider gaps open between the houses, overhang-sheltered plants and flowers appear on and around doorsteps and windows. The harsh cacophony of the rain only grew harder, practically drowning out the sounds of their footsteps, and the King couldn’t help but feel a touch agitated at the cold water relentlessly pouring down on his shell, sweeping into the seams of his carapace and soaking his robes. Despite this, he took the time to look around the buildings as he passed, noting how a lot of the doors were left ajar, how the windows looked empty, and even how the streets he walked on were cracked and unsteady, festering with plant life and weeds. It was enough to make his eyes narrow softly.

There didn't seem to be many people, if any at all, on the streets, and, judging by how Dryya started twisting her nail in its sheath, she had noticed and wasn't particularly happy about it either. The King could have counted with one hand the number of faces that appeared fleetingly in secured windows. A compact ball laid untouched in a puddle forming in a simple yard. Ogrim, again, was the first to speak, his eyes trailing the windows with a look of suspicion going across his face, his claws curling up for a moment, tensity making his body shiver. “...Something is wrong.”

"Thinking about it, we didn't see many people outside of the plaza, did we?" Isma threads her hands together, thumbs fussing each other. "Fewer people the further we go in...."

“...Did the official reports ever say anything about what happened to the lower districts of the City?” The King’s eyes narrow in thought, in growing suspicion, his hands beginning to clench.

"Nothing particularly different from other sections of the kingdom, though the poor did have... some difficulties finding doctors at times." Dryya taps her nail. "Once the emergency reserves were sent, there was better access, but there are still only so many doctors to go around. Maybe some of them went to the Waterways? If a family member fell ill...."

“Were they informed of the dangers of the infection?”

"Yes, of course. Messengers we sent to every neighborhood, ordered to not only give verbal pronouncements but to..." Her eyes narrow, gait slowing again. "...set flyers on the posting boards and any poles or shops they could find. This is mostly residential area, but... nothing on the poles or the boards. I...."

The King stops entirely, and his visage turns rigid, and for a moment he doesn’t speak. “.....Do any of you know which district the Soul Soother’s monastery is stationed?”

"Soul Soother?" Ze'mer lifts a hand to her chin. "Che' believes it would be to the east. Past where we came from, behind us now."

"Nearby, but not far," Dryya mutters,  spinning her nail again. "You had a disagreement with him recently, isn't that right, My King?"

The King is silent for a moment before he nods, and it was quite clear that he was thinking rather intensely, his expression shifting into that of a troubled look. “..Yes, indeed...” He tilts his head upwards ever so slightly. “If this area is overrun, it could be possible that survivors might still be around. Keep on your guard.”

"Yes, My King."

The others offering similar affirmatives, and they slowly start walking again, hands on their weapons and eyes darting from side to side. They watch the still-open doors and shadowy alleys as they pass, no longer eyeing the ill-kept yards with a sense of sorrow. The rain pelts down on them from above, muffling the sounds of even Hegemol's footsteps. The King tried to keep his gait as regal and as steely as possible. He could feel lingering gazes, empty and listless, constantly drifting to and fro all around him, beating hearts and glowing souls all slowly becoming filled with the horrible sickness, turned a sickly orange hue. He could feel them, everywhere, and if he hadn’t just seen an entire crowd in the very richest areas of the city, he almost would’ve been convinced that She had taken the entire city. He just hoped that there was still survivors, anyone, that had evaded their doom. He tried to keep his senses honed, wading through the metaphorical sea of disease, desperate to see a flash of white, pure and without Her influence.

For a moment, there's nothing. A shadowy sea of pure nothing between shambling, barely there, orange-tinted white. His Lady and his Knights stand beside him, glowing their own unique, blessed colors, unwaveringly themselves, a diamond of a boundary surrounding the King and Queen of Hallownest. Was there no one? Not a single soul? Was he already too-

_ Clang _ !

The entire escort halts in unison, shoulders and arms tensing. A faint sound, distant - but distance is always muffled in the City of Tears. Ahead, maybe, but direction could be fooled by all the halls and alleys. Metallic, though, definitively some kind of metal, which means the sound coming from either a trash can or-

_ Cling, clang! _

“...That’s a sword.” Ogrim’s voice is soft but tense.

“A survivor?” Hegemol tightens his grip on his mace.

“Dryya, investigate, now.” The King’s voice rings out as a sharp command, his heart unable to resist jumping in his chest.

In an instant, she's dashed to the nearest alley, and then the next, pausing only to look either way and listen for the telltale sounds of a nail clashing on something similarly heavy. She pauses in front of the third alley, turns, and abruptly raises her nail defensively in front of her, a spark of light glinting off the side and sending a cleaved stone similar to shingles jumping along the ground toward the Royal Escort.

Isma instantly grips onto her staff as she rushes forwards, taking a defensive stance next to Dryya her head snapping upwards towards the roof of the buildings. “Did you see the attacker?”

“Look in the alley." Her nail is still raised, and her voice is still firm, but she makes no move to go forward.

Ahead of them, amidst the slanted shade provided by the houses, a notably crimson-shelled bug darted around and above a burly bug sporting a nail and shield, the kingdom's crest seared into the metal. A glowing, white sword hovers, following the smaller bug's path as he leapt to the lower roof, shingles falling down onto the infected husk's head as it flailed in the cramped space to catch him with a swing of its blade.

Isma’s grip tightens on her staff, seeing the familiar flash of red, recognizing the glowing blades, and she moves to stab her staff into the ground. The pavement beneath the husk’s feet shifts, cracks open, and a thorny vine bursts free to slam through the armor and pierce the husk’s side. The grip on it’s sword fumbles, and it lets out a weak groan of pain. The red bug pauses for a moment, and then jumps to the ground, disappearing behind the large sentry for a moment before one of their own blades pierces through the bug, the tip going clear through the shell of its back, glistening with dark blood and... small, barely there rivulets or orange. The nail vanishes, the bug goes limp, and the knight leaps onto the roof and then back to the ground, walking toward the pair. He pauses outside of the alleyway, inclining his head.

"Knights Isma and Dryya. Thank you for your aid."

Isma slowly pries her staff from the ground and gives a nod of greetings. “Hello, Xero. It’s good to see that you are still amongst the living.”

“That sentry was infected.” Dryya slowly sheathes her sword, though her hand does not leave it’s hilt. “How long have you been here in this district?”

"Long enough." He huffs, then turns his gaze to where the other Knights surrounded the King and Queen. He inclines his head again, deeper this time. "News has already hit that the Monarchs have been to the plaza. I'm surprised you even came here, given the last report that was sent out."

The King stares for a moment, before he nods back, though he makes no move to step closer. This bug...Xero...That name sounded familiar. “I am duty bound to visit my people...” He trails off slightly to gaze at the area around them. “...But I see that there are not many of them left here.” His eyes fall back on Xero. “Do you know why that is?”

"Almost the entire district has been quarantined, My King." He watches him, almost frowning. "We don't know why, but the cases of infection have been higher in this area than in others. Even guards and patrols have been falling ill." He hesitates for a moment, shifting slightly. "You - forgive me, My King, but you shouldn't be here. It's too dangerous."

He shakes his head, softly. “No. I appreciate your concern, but I must continue forwards. If I were to leave any survivors here, it would be the same as killing them myself. Tell me, have you seen any citizens in the district that are still sane?”

He watches him again, silent for perhaps a moment too long before looking away. "No, My King. Not one."

The King feels his heart quiver, for even just the slightest of seconds before it hardens up, and his eyes narrow. “...Then how have you survived this long?”

"The rooftops, My King." He points overhead. "Most of them cannot climb, or open doors for that matter It's the easiest path through the city, so long as you're... agile." He glances at Hegemol and Ogrim for a split second.

Hegemol remains silent, while Ogrim lets out a hearty chuckle. “Ohoho! Xero! Still sour about our duel, are we? Holding grudges isn’t good for your health, you know!”

"I can assure you, Sir Ogrim, that I am  _ completely _ over that." He sighs, rolling his eyes at the barb. "One of these days, I'll best you. Wait and see."

Ogrim chuckles again and makes a show of pounding his chest with one of his claws. “Oh, I can hardly wait for the day!”

The King clears his throat, softly, his arms folding beneath his robes as he takes a step closer to the vigilante. “Tell me...Before the infection swept through this place, did you see any..suspicious activity? To my knowledge, there were verbal warnings as well as posters distributed to the entire city. Surely those living in this district would’ve been informed of the disease.”

"I... was not assigned to this district, My King," Xero admits. "I haven't heard anything particularly malicious. Having said that, perhaps I am not the one you should be asking. Everyone reported their warnings as fully present at the command post, though. The guard should be there, if they aren't scouting the perimeter."

“And where is this command post? Please, if you could point me and my Knights in the proper direction, I would be most grateful.” The King steps closer, his eyes slightly narrowed, gaze trailing over the curvature of those horns and the piercing gaze beneath his helmet. Xero...Xero.... _ Why does that sound so familiar? _

"Of course, My King. The building would be..." He shifts slightly, pointing up above the rooftops of the buildings around them, past a few apartment buildings, and to a tall, cylindrical building with a coned top. " _ There _ ."

The King immediately turns his head up toward the rooftops, his eyes having to squint heavily in order to exactly follow the trajectory of where Xero’s finger was pointing. He could see a massive monolithic structure just barely poking out over the sea of dilapidated buildings, and the rain pouring against his face was enough to blur his vision, just to the point of being unable to properly make it out. He lifts a hand to attempt to block off some of the rain, and he succeeds in getting a clearer view. A dome roof, with bright white windows, and a large stone slab depicting the face of a frowning mask.

His breath catches, his heart skips a beat. “The Soul Sooth-“

He doesn't quite know what happens next. He feels a pinch, feels himself slide - stagger? - back, but for a moment, a blinding moment,  _ nothing _ happens. His sight blurs, his breath stops, his hearing reduces to static. And then, all at once, it comes flooding back, a harsh exhale of breath that tries to send his lungs coughing, if only something weren't blocking the way, searing his chest open and tearing him in three, and he feels his entire body jolting with movement, feels the blood dripping down his still open mouth, feels his claws - all four claws - come out to grab the handles of the blades sunk into his chest.

Oh.  **_That_ ** Xero.

His limbs weakly twitch and jerk, fingers trembling as they curl around the the hilts of the swords, and it’s only then does the pain blooming throughout his entire body feel less like numb static and more like hot pokers imbedded into his lungs. He tries to speak, tries to shout, but all that comes up is blood. His eyes are wet, facing the sky, and he can just barely feel the downpour of rain against his face. His ears are ringing. He hears screaming, shouting, the faint sounds of combat. Then, slowly, a shadow falls over him.

"You are no king." That same morose face he had been staring at from across the city hovers in front of him, cloak billowing around him in that stupid, godforsaken way of his, and he'd do anything right now to just tear this bug to shreds if it weren't for these pesky nails weighing him down. That face of his was curled into a wicked sneer. “A true king would see an answer when presented with one. Would  _ take it _ when offered." A hand snaps out, grabbing a blade roughly and shoving it forward. His body offers little more than a feeble twitch, and his bloodied vocal chords ring with his screams as the pain skewers him. The other hand grabs him by the shoulder, lifting his head off the ground, leaving him little choice to stare into his attacker’s hideous face, a face that was glaring at him with utter contempt. "You could have saved them! You  _ knew _ what needed to be done, and yet you did nothing!  _ You _ doomed them all! You-"

Within an instant, the Soul Soother’s despicable face was gone, completely out of his sight, and it left the King blinking out of sheer confusion for a moment, before the twisting figure of a large white vine crept into his view. It lingered over his chest for a moment before it began wrapping around at least two of the swords, adjusting it’s grip and tightening it as it prepared to yank the weapons free. His mandibles clenched, and he fought to not scream, blood wetting his lips once more as he feels his flesh tear and his shattered carapace crack, two of his now free arms desperately pawing against the ground, trying to push himself upwards, to see what was happening, what was going on, his vision speckled with darkness, with flashes of red.

"Breathe, my love." That familiar hand touches him just below the neck, fleetingly, and a flash of white passes him as a bellowing  _ shriek _ breaks out among the clanging of nails and shields. The sounds stammer for a moment, snowy tendrils whipping just outside his line of sight.

“Ggh...Hhhh..” His hands clutch the other two blades, and his claws tremble as he slowly,  _ slowly _ pulls them free of his flesh, his vision swirling and pain making his organs shrivel like he was about to vomit. With one final wrench of the hands, the blades are tossed away, and he looks down to find his robes soaked crimson, his heart thundering in his ears as he sees his torso littered with grievous gashes that wept red. He looks back up, his hand finding to rest upon his Lady’s, desperate to see the state of his Knights. 

He almost chokes as he sees Isma, staff stabbed into the ground to form a fence of vines around them, dozens upon  _ dozens _ of burning eyes peeking through the crevices, clawing through the plants. Ze'mer spun around her with her much to large claymore of a nail, forcing infected bugs away from her even as more crept through the gaps in the makeshift fencing. Hegemol swung his club, managing to knock a pair of bugs clear out of the arena, letting the swing curve back and parry a glowing sword.

Dryya and Ogrim were bouncing and jumping all over the place, using the windows and rooftops and balcony’s to their advantage as leverage in order to try and get close enough to land a blow on Xero, who was perched atop a roof, his posture straight, his eyes shining with a powerful glow as his blessed swords swung and sliced through the air. The King finally stumbles to his feet, wobbling slightly, his wings slowly spreading as he lets his bloodied palms fill with his divinity, his anger and the pounding of his heart fueling the process, causing his body to glow brighter and brighter with every second. In two of his palms spawns a large lance, while the air shimmers in front of the wrist of his other hands, and a shield of light materializes into sight.

He hoists the lance over his shoulder, takes aim, and throws it with all his might, at Xero.

The traitor dives at the last minute, skating down the slate roof and barely managing to parry a swing of a scythe from Ogrim. He jumps, landing and rolling into the midst of infected husks, a trio of nails appearing around him and zooming across the field in a lopsided arc, one toward Dryya, another toward Isma, and the last toward the King.

"If you cannot make the sacrifices necessary, you cannot be Hallownest's king." He stands, barely bothered by the husks around him. "Cut away the infection... even if you must do it with your own two hands."

The lance that slices through the air where Xero had been standing flies off into the distance, and with a wave of the King’s hand, it draws back, as if yanked by an unseen string. He sees the glimmer of red horns within the sea of orange eyes, and he swiftly leaps out of the way from yet another deadly blade, his gaze turning cold and steely as he brandishes his weapon. “I cannot make sacrifices for the sake of weak goals! Your ally knows not of what he speaks! He may preach salvation, but all he plans is genocide!”

He takes a deep breath, before he launches himself into the air with one powerful beat of his wings, and blasts a beam of light at the speck of crimson he can see amongst the husks, only to see a flash in the corner of his vision. Pain explodes in his head, burning, crackling with energy that leaves his vision fuzzy, and he feels his body crash and slide across the stone shingles.

"You doom us to genocide if you don't follow my plan!" Soul Soother floats up to him, leisurely, another ball of sparking yellow covering his hand. "What would you have us do? Wait around while we slaughter each other, watching partners kill each other, children turning on parents!?"

Below, Xero leaps to an upper floor window, one hand slipping on the water laden surface. His reflection warps, and he reflexively drops. The window shatters, the silver Knight barreling into the dormant house with a screech of rage.

A tendrils whips through the air, snagging the traitor by the ankle, and promptly tosses him across the road. "You  _ dare _ attack your own King, knight of deceit!? You  _ dare _ dishonor all he has given you, all he has achieved!?”

Xero turns in mid air, his body bending in a way that’s almost considered unnatural, before he buries a sword into the ground, gouging a long gash into the pavement in order to slow his descent. He finally straightens, and his eyes burn with an intense, bitter anger as he spread his arms wide and spawns more holy weapons, at least 4 in all. He glares at the Queen, and he shifts his stance, voice steely and unwavering. “Your King has given me  _ nothing _ , just like he gives his people  _ nothing _ . The only thing they have, as I have, is false hope.”

He surges forward, two blades seamlessly flying into his hands as he jumps in the air, twirling once, twice, before swinging down for a vicious strike, while the other two blades come at from the sides.

The King feels bitter hatred seep into his skin at the sight of the power that flows through the Soul Master’s fingers, and he feels his throat rumble in a low growl, his claws clenching around the weapons he still held aloft. He could feel the itching pain of his flesh, every labored breath making it more and more clear that his wounds had yet to heal. He narrows his eyes, and he begins to slowly pace the roof he is perched atop. “Your plan is faulty, Soul Soother! It is based on nothing but lies! You may think that stolen Soul can waste away the infection, but it only provides momentary relief! It is doomed to fail from the start, and I will not let you use  _ thousands _ of innocents as pawns to prolong your twisted views!”

He passes the hilt of the lance to his lower hand and raises his main one in a large sweeping motion, making intricate gestures with his fingers, and it wasn’t long before spheres of translucent runes formed around the floating mage, burning brighter and brighter with arcane light before finally exploding, lighting up the skies with bright white fire.

The Soul Soother frowns at the orbs surrounding him, only to curse as one exploded, sending the others into a chain reaction around him. His hands toss into the air moments before his body is obscured in the white of the explosions.

The King was able to hear the screams of the Soul Soother within the harsh din of the explosion, and couldn’t help but narrow his eyes, a sneer overtaking his face, disgusted at how pitifully overconfident the pathetic mortal was. The light fades away, and nothing remains in the air, not even burnt remnants of cloth, and he lets out a huff of air. “Tch...Idiot...”

He grimaces a sting of pain stances through his side, and his hand clasps against one of the wounds on his torso, still feeling the blood wash over his claws, still feeling the ache with every breath. He winces at the feeling, and clenches his fists, drawing his magic back into his body, causing his light to ever so slightly fade, feeling his energy flowing towards the center of his chest.

"Stopping so soon, My King? Xero really must have done a number on you." A crackle of lightning sounds behind him. "So much for being immortal if such small blades could bring you down."

" _ Moh Queen! _ " Ze'mer leaps aside, momentarily leaving her post around Isma, and swings her claymore, knocking one of Xero's swords out of the air. "Your other-"

A blur of bluish grey streaks across the field, striking the sword on its side and sending it off course and into a wall. A round, shelled ball hits the building's stoop and rolls off, bouncing twice on the ground before popping open with a squeak, scurrying in a panic.

"Oh."

Xero’s eyes narrow as he stares down at the Queen’s enraged gaze, her arms held up in a blocking position in front of her face, his blades having found their home within the exposed flesh, rivulets of dark blue blood sizzling and smoking against the holy metal. He pulls the blades back, and leaps backwards just as a vine bursts free from the ground where he was just standing, it’s point narrowed and with the intent to stab, to skewer. He brandishes his blades once more, and glowers at his opponent with visible disdain. “...Do you really think you can kill me? I’ve trained to become a Great Knight ever since I arrived in this kingdom. These blades were given to me by your precious King himself, as a symbol of respect for my skills. How ironic, don’t you think, that they will be the weapons that will slay him.”

The King hears the voice, and his blood runs cold, his heart skipping a beat. His fists clench for a moment, feeling the sting of his wounds, and he whirls around, moving to swing his arms that contain his holy shield outwards in a wide arc, wings flared open, body regaining its glow. He barely gets the chance to see the Soul Soother’s grinning face before pain causes his vision to flare white, and he feels his body lift momentarily into the air, the rain still soaking his skin. The wind whips by, his surroundings blur and flare red as pain consumes him for only a brief moment, his eyes opening to see the destroyed remnants of what looked to be a brick wall.

Debris flies everywhere, the sounds of battle becoming muted as he hits a cushion - a sofa? - and rolls across wood and into a dresser. Dull light filters in through the dust only to be blocked by a round silhouette, a faint hum of electricity trickling in amongst the pattering of rain overhead. Footsteps touch down on the newly made entrance of bricks, and the Soul Soother steps forward, spheres of sizzling  _ power _ circling him. "You're almost making this  _ too _ easy for me, King." He steps forward, raising a hand. "Don't tell me you're- Hrrk!"

A nail of silver sprouts between the plates of his shell, his magic flickering around him even as he staggered and grapple with the intrusive metal. Rapid footsteps hurry from across the room, and the Pale King feels arms move under his back and legs, pulling him up roughly before sprinting for a window that had shattered in the initial impact.

"Hold on, My King!"

Dryya leaps through the window, legs cycling and just barely managing to make a staggering run onto the shorter, one story roof of the house next door.

Below them, more vines thrash at Xero, who is kept mobile with the attacks, but otherwise escapes the hits. "I believe you have a  _ deeply _ misconstrued idea as to  _ who _ trains these Knights, traitor! You come as close to killing our King as you come to earning the title of Knight!"

Xero’s blades swing through the air like blazing beacons, dancing through the air and in his hands with a dazzling light, his red armor glistening with the now dried blood of the King, the vines falling to pieces with each new swing. His eyes are cold, practically unforgiving, and he moves closer, closer, with every second. “The title I should have earned, the title I  _ deserved _ to have, the title that was  _ ripped away _ the  _ second _ the King condemned me to fight that pathetic dung-flinging excuse of a warrior.”

A new row of vines fall with visible prejudice. His blades whistle by a hair’s length from the Queen’s cheek.

“Soul Master has helped me hone my skills. He’s shown me the light, shown me that your precious King has left his Kingdom to fester under the disease. And now, we will liberate Hallownest from his rule, and restore it to the eternal civilization it was meant to be.”

A blade strikes true. Blood dribbles from her lips.

The King feels the rain on his skin once more, feels the sting of his cuts, both new and fresh, litter his body, and it takes a moment for him to breathe. He feels wetness around one eye, and reaches up to touch his forehead. It comes away red. He clenches his fists, and for a moment, his eyes flick down below, watching as the rest of his Knights cut down wave after wave of infected. He sees a flash of red in his peripherals, quickly followed by the sight of a blade piercing the flesh of his Lady.

The air grows cold. The rain stops dead. The Pale King slowly rises to his feet, his vision pulsing, swimming, tunneling in on the red armor. His light seems to grow blinding, his wings flare.

A light, piercing and as sharp as a blade, explodes out in a shockwave, and all of the buildings surrounding the King, immediately begin to crumble and collapse.

The battle momentarily stops as the winds buffet the Knights, the traitor, and the husks surrounding them. Dryya flinches back, staggering into a kneel as the building below her shakes, but remains the sole survivor of the utter destruction wreaked with one blow. Entire walls fall into the streets, pinning shuffling husks and sending bricks and shingles raining down around them in clouds of dust. For a moment, just a moment, silence reigns.

A small mumble builds as the dust settles, and it becomes clear that the infected bugs had stopped in their tracks to turn and stare up at the Pale King. The orange in their eyes flickers, briefly, and a few of them slowly don a confused, awed look, blinking as if abruptly awoken from a nap. Then, one by one, they sink and fall to the ground.

“...Xero, Soul Master, I will give one last time to surrender. This is your final chance. You’ve heard the legends. You know my power, you know the danger, deep down within. You don’t want this fight. You don’t want to face me. So drop your weapons, and you will live.” The Pale King stands motionless amongst the carnage, eyes narrowed, his visage blank.

A few bricks and a nail fall as Soul Master pulls himself free from fallen debris. He stares at the infected bugs as they glimpse a final moment of cognizance, and jumps up into the air as they fall to the ground. He twists to watch the Pale King, a look of dawning horror falling over him. His hands flare with that off-white electricity even as he inches away. "N-no! I am  _ helping _ people. I don't care what you think; it's what I'm doing and you're stopping me from doing it!"

His eyes flick to Soul Master, for only a moment, trailing over spheres of power that drift between his fingers. “..I see. You’re hopeless. I wish I could say I’m disappointed.” His right arm lifts up, palm open wide, but then he pauses, and stares down at Xero. “Does he speak for you? Will you refuse to surrender?”

Xero is frozen, frozen still, as he witnesses the destruction, the carnage that was caused by nothing  _ KILL HIM _ more than a simple gesture. The cacophony of the falling buildings was enough to make the ground shake, and he can just distantly hear the screaming of the crowds as they stampede  _ CUT HIM DOWN _ and run for safety. His eyes find themselves staring at the glowing visage of the King, of his flared wings and his icy glare, and he  _ USURP THE MURDERER _ finds his grasp on his blades growing loose.

“..I...I...I will not-“

He barely has any time to move before his vision seems to tilt, to wobble, his breathing growing heavier and his body beginning to tremble. The King’s bloody torso, the bleeding gash that lines the edge of his crown, the dangling, limp arm that hung lifeless by his side, all begun to close up. The flesh shifting, the shell cracking and creaking, the blood evaporating as if it was never there. And the look the King was giving him. The gaze he was staring into  _ KILL HIM _ was the most horrific  _ DESTROY THE WYRM _ thing he had ever seen in his life. His heart hammers, his breathing turns heavy, shaky, and the edges of his vision begin to grow dark, darker, yet darker, until he sees nothing but the  _ THE WYRM MUST DIE _ wrath of a God, come to destroy him.

_ YOU MUST KILL HIM USE YOUR BLADES USE YOUR MIGHT END THIS KINGDOM _ He  _ KILL THE WYRM KILL HIM NOW HE MUST FALL ALL WILL FALL UNDER THE LIGHT _ was  _ THE WYRM HAS BETRAYED THE WYRM HAS RUINED THE WYRM HAS CONQUERED HE MUST DIE _ such a  _ THE LIGHT WILL CONSUME HIM BURN HIM DESTROY HIM THE LIGHT WILL COME THE DAWN WILL COME UNITY WILL COME _ fool  _ KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL THE WYRM _

The White Lady, kneeling just behind the traitor and desperately trying to pull the nail from her side -  _ Why did it hurt so much? It shouldn't hurt so much! _ \- watches as Xero stammers, as tiny quivers play over his arms enough for his nail to start sliding from his fingers. Good, in her books. It was about time  _ someone _ remembered who they were dealing with, who their King was. She watched as the nail fell from his hand.

And her eyes snapped wide in horror as his hand snapped the nail back into his clutches, a chorus of similar blades wrapping in front of him, edges tipped the faintest of orange, and a simple twitch of his muscle sent them careening straight toward the crowned ruler of Hallownest.

The King can’t help but frown, clenching his fists ever so slightly as he sees the blades careening towards him, knowing with a heavy heart that both of them had grown far too unruly, far too hungry for power. He lets out a sigh, and just as the blades reach him, they freeze in place, held still. The King lifts his left hand up and taps the edge of the blade closest to his finger, watching as the mighty weapons begin to crack, trembling violently, before shattering into pieces. His eyes flick to the Soul Master, and within his outstretched palm, a blast of what could only be described as jagged white light launches itself free from his claws, striking true with a rattling  _ boom _ that was so loud it made the air shake.

What almost looks like a small explosion goes off as a charged spell loses focus right in the Soul Master's hands, and he's sent flying down to the road below, skipping across cobblestone before skidding to a stop. An odd wheezing noise escapes him and he deflates into a rag of too much flesh and shell. Air whistles through him, high pitched and grating, and he doesn't even use his own arms and legs to stand, he merely floats, dripping white from one of his many wounds.

" _ Hyaa _ !" Below, amidst the mayhem and pyrotechnics, the White Lady spears Xero's remaining nail into his shoulder, putting her entire weight on the spike and driving him to the ground. "His hands! Get his hands!"

Dryya, who was practically frozen as she watched the King so swiftly reduce the two attackers down to nothing, hears the call of Her Lady and jumps down to the ground, running over to grab Xero’s wrists, grunting as the armored traitor thrashes and writhes, his voice letting out nothing more than a strangled scream of what could only be described as absolute rage.

The Queen pushes further down on the nail, the tip sinking into the ground even as Xero thrashed. "Hegemol, your cuffs, now! Ze'mer, Isma, do either of you have any sedatives?"

“S-Sedatives? Quoi? We’re taking him captive?” Ze’mer visibly jolts in surprise at the sheer thought of such a thing.

“Will one of you just knock him out already? The Queen has given you an order!” Dryya’s voice is a harsh growl as she feels Xero’s hands beginning to lift up off his back, wrangling to keep them still long enough for Hegemol to cuff them.

"Ah, yes!" Isma darts forward, pulling a flask from seemingly nowhere and uncorking it. "Just need to-" She jumps slightly as he jerks forward, then quickly grabs his horned helmet and forces his head back. "This might burn, please blink a lot!" She upends the vial through his visor and into his eyes.

Xero doesn’t even seem to hear her, his eyes remaining wide, wide open, even as he lets out another horrid scream, his gaze growing bloodshot from the burning of the sedative as it sinks into his skin. The click of the cuffs is heard as Dryya pulls away, her eyes growing wide upon seeing the bloody wound staining Her Lady’s robes. “M-My Queen, you’re injured!”

"I'll be fine," she manages, though her breath comes out slightly labored. "Hold him until he calms. Where is the other one?"

Ogrim turns his head to scan what he could see from all of the rubble, his eyes narrowing when he spots a puddle of what looks to be blood but no body. “I’ll scout around and see if I can find where he went.” He jumps and rolls up into a ball, bouncing off of the debris and off into the distance.

"Be careful!" The White Lady mutters something under her breath, easing her hold on the nail as Xero's struggles weaken. She looks back up to the Pale King, still floating above them and staring in the direction Ogrim had raced off in. "Hun? We need you down here, if only for the moment."

For a moment, the King doesn’t move, but then he blinks, turns his head toward the commotion, and spreads his wings, jumping off his perch and landing with a graceful descent. He immediately reaches out towards his love and takes her hands in his own, seeing the blood that stains her clothes. “He hurt you..”

"Yes, well, that happens in a battle." She tries for a smile, despite the post-combat exhaustion creeping in. "Listen, it means nothing, but I believe he was going to lower his weapon earlier. That last attack may not have been him."

His eyes flick to Xero’s slowly weakening body, and nods softly. “I could feel his soul. I sensed great fear in it, and that fear became swallowed up by the infection. She had claimed him.”

"Do you think there's any chance he can still talk to us? He might have some information that might be of use." She scowls at the red bug. "He will die a traitor's death, but until then...."

“..No.” The King turns away from Xero’s body. “Do with it as you will, my love. But I have no interest in what little use this walking corpse has.” He looks downwards, for a moment, before taking a deep breath, his shoulders dropping, his robes torn and bloodied.

"Very well. There will be a public execution before sundown. Treason will not be accepted within our borders." She folds her hands together, both disappearing under her robes. "I advise you to stay home, dear. It's been a while since such an act has been needed, and we don't need anyone else getting ideas. I carry this burden myself."

“...Very well. Are all of you well?” He turns his head to glance at the rest of his Knights.

"A few bruises, but otherwise fine, My King." Dryya inclines her head.

Isma grins lightly. "Tired, but who isn't after a fight like that?"

"What they said," Hegemol offers.

"Forgive me for being blunt, moh King," Ze'mer starts, almost hesitant, "but che' thinks it might be best for us to rest. Ezmah alone used much of her power, and che' saw a few civilians reach Hejzmoh while protecting the Queen - let alone the injuries you both sustained. It would be best to return to the Palace, no?"

“..Yes, it would be.“ He sighs and lifts up his hands to rub his face, his wings going limp, practically wilting. “....It..would be.”

 

••••

Ze’mer took great care in gently tipping the watering can over the plant pot, her hands steady and her gaze even more so, watching keenly for even the slightest of bends in the petals as the water droplets slid their way down into the soil. She slowly tips the can back up, placing it down next to the pot, sticking one of her fingers into the soil, before nodding softly to herself. This Flower was healthy, and it would continue to grow. She was sure that Her Lady would enjoy the present for her Gardens.

Ogrim was scrubbing down his chest plate with a white rag, one that had already been stained brown and covered with smears of dirt, frowning intensely at the stain that just seemed to refuse to come on out. He huffed slightly, mumbling soft profanities under his breath, though not loud enough so Isma would hear. If cleaning his armor was what it took to get his mind off of what was going on currently, then so be it.

Hegemol had removed himself of his armor, gingerly poking at the bandaged areas of his flesh where those walking corpses had sunk their mandibles in. He couldn’t help but feel his heart beating a touch faster than it already was, a creeping sense of foreboding that seemed to make his organs twist and his body tremble. He idly wondered what it felt like, to die.

Isma was wringing her hands around her staff, feeling the texture of the wood beneath it, feeling the power of the woodlands thrum softly against her fingertips, her mind still flashing with images of those pale orange eyes, of those grasping hands trying to push their way through her vines. She clenches her fingers as she thinks of  two milky, listless eyes, staring up at her as the medicine burned them, pupils gaining a soft orange haze.

The King was staring at the jar of Void, holding it in his hands like it was a sacred artifact, a valuable jewel, his eyes heavy with irritation, fascination, and exhaustion all at once. He could feel His Lady at the very back of his mind, could feel the cold, brutal disdain of the traitor who dared attacked her love, could feel the smug approval upon hearing the crowd roar with vibrant calls for justice. It was almost disturbing, how easily such a beautiful wife could turn into the most ruthless of killers. He could tell when it happened, when Xero drew his last breath, for the almost sadistic satisfaction that bloomed within her connection was enough to make his shoulders shiver.

But that wasn’t his concern. Not now. No...No, he needed to get back on track. Grimm’s talk of kin and his Troupe had led him astray, made him doubt the urgency of his situation, of his plight. Dealing with the public only brought pain, pain and misery, not only to himself, but the innocents that saw him and his crowned visage. It only allowed for precious time to be lost, to slip through his fingers like sand, and for all that relied on him, he could not afford to let it. He needed to force himself away from such things. He needed to work. Needed to succeed. No matter the cost.

The room gradually heated up, as if the Nightmare King could hear the inconsistent thoughts that came from watching the ashen particles floating about the Void in front of him. The King heard the snap of air behind him and watched the jar reflect the crimson flash that came behind him. He continued staring, watching Grimm's reflection hum a small melody with unfocused, lighthearted eyes. Such a strange sense of timing this god had. Strange, yet uniquely beneficial.

The footsteps stop just shy of his chair, still staring off into the middle distance. "Mm, I thought I felt your presence return here. Back to your desk already? I hope your time off helped clear your mind a little."

“...You could say that.” His voice was soft, and his breathing was still slightly labored, the internal injuries caused by those accursed blades still taking the time to fully heal, the scars marring what used to be a perfectly stellar white complexion. He was sure that to the other God, he looked to be a mess. His robes were visibly tattered in places, as he had the bloodied, soaking, patches torn away, leaving his tail exposed, as well as his legs. His thumb idly rubs against the surface of the jar, watching as the ashes continue to float, untouched and pristine, through the hissing, gurgling shape of the Void.

“...I think I’ve made progress.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY. IT'S BEEN A WHILE.
> 
> But this one's hella long, so you're welcome.
> 
> Fair warning: Shit gets tense in this one. There's violence, there's shouting, there's blood/gore. People are at their wit's end here. Especially PK and Grimm. They're tired and need some rest.
> 
> (I swear it gets better for them, I promise, but these boys have some weak, fragile egos and need to actually talk to each other)
> 
> Oh, and a few more fan favorites show up. Hope you enjoy!

"Hm?" Even from behind him, Pale King could hear the telltale shift of Grimm straightening. "Your voice - are you unwell, my dear King?" He walks up to him, rounding the chair, and bowing to his level, a hand moving to land on his shoulder but stopping midair. In fact, it seemed everything about the troupe master had gone still - his cape, his face, his breath - and his head hadn't even fully turned to look at the Pale King. His eyes were wide, staring at the desk, where the King's hands rested, between which stood the most recent Void jar. "What...  _is this?_ "

“..This is progress. I had...found these ashes amongst where you stood when you left. I had decided to test something. They’ve been in this jar for at least 5 days, and they haven’t dissolved.” A small smirk lifts up his lips, his shoulders sagging.

" _Why....?_ " Grimm forces himself to stay still, glaring at the little flecks bouncing around the jar and between the Void specimen. He had been in such a good mood too. His kin were all in good health, the Troupe had successfully moved to their newest destination. Brumm had even shown him a new song before he left, which was somewhat of a rarity these days.

Now he could feel an anger he hadn't felt in quite some time bubbling just under his carapace, and he wasn't sure how long he could keep it in check before a healthy dose of water was necessary.

The King notices the sudden increase in the smell of burning smoke in the air, and he blinks, his brow raising slightly in tepid confusion. “...You seem troubled. Has something happened with your kin?”

A growl tears past his lips at the idea, and he instinctively grabs the jar and walks several steps away simply to move _as far away as possible_ without setting something ablaze. Something wrong with his kin. As if he'd let it come to that! He was a proper troupe master. Nothing would happen under his watch. He shakes the specimen, watching the sample of Void hiss and writhe, the ashes swirling around as if it were some cheap token from a far off land. This, undoubtedly, was much more deadly, he thought.

The King had blinked the moment he felt those burning claws suddenly snatch away the jar, standing there in shocked silence for a moment or two before turning to see Grimm standing there and shaking it, glaring at the hissing mound of black liquid like he was about to set it on fire. He quickly walks over, trying to grab the rattling jar from the other’s hands, trying to ignore the faint stinging of pain in his abdomen. “W-What are you doing?! Careful! Don’t aggravate it, that might disrupt the ashes!”

"That's precisely what I'm trying to do." He holds the jar a foot higher, easily out of reach of the Pale King. "I want you to _get them out._ You had no permission to use them in such a manner, and you will _remove them_ immediately."

“I- What?! No, no absolutely not! That is the first bit of progress I’ve had in _months!_ I don’t know what’s gotten into you over something so minuscule as this, but I do know that I will not let you ruin this!” His wings flare open, and a flicker of pain washes over his face in a visible wince, but he leaps, and his claws wrap around the jar.

" _Miniscule!?_ " He splutters as the King leaps into the air, prepared to pull the jar out of his grasp, but hesitates at the last moment upon seeing the pain, however brief, cross his visage. He finally notes the tatters in the King's robes, the stains of blood - more than one person's, and quite a bit of it _godly_ if he had his memories correct - and the jar slips from his fingers.

The King immediately tucks the jar close to his chest, and he moves to the other side of the room, his wings tucking back, and again, as he walks, there are brief winces, his breathing hitching into a soft hiss of pain. He finally turns back to face Grimm, his eyes heavy with irritation, with anger, and so much confusion. “...Take it from me again and I will be forced to...” He trails off for a moment, his tail lashing, then he just growls. “Don’t do it again.”

"I make no promises, and we _will_ be removing those ashes," he snaps, and he truly meant to soften his tone, but the headache rising in his skull was *not* helping him at all, "but first, what happened to you? Something happened while I was away. Who hurt you? Why?"

He should have moved forward to help the King. It was clear he was having issues standing, let alone walking, so it only made sense that he should be helping him. Something in him didn't want to. Maybe that more incoherent part of him knew something he didn't know. Maybe it knew he'd fumble his aid as much as he butchered those staccato sentences.

Well, he could still feel the fire running under his carapace. That much he was sure of.

The King growls again, and his tail lashes harder at the mention of removing the ashes, but at the mention of being hurt, the glare in his eyes lessen, and he looks away. “...I’m fine. The wounds are just… healing a bit slower than they usually would.”

Fine. He was fine. Good. That was good. He considers moving back to the _much more pressing_ topic of _ashes in Void_ but forces the last bits of his patience to stretch just an inch thinner. "Mortal wounds would heal rather quickly for a god like you. How did it happen? What blade?"

“..A traitor. A traitor and his deranged pawn.”

So there was an attempted coup somewhere in the Kingdom. Great. The public was becoming uneasy. Why, exactly was he sticking around any longer?

Grimm shakes the thought from his mind, taking a deep breath. "I am... very sorry that happened." A few words of true sympathy cross his mind and his patience snaps, long legs easily closing the distance between them and hand snapping out in an obvious demand. "I apologize, but I _truly_ need that jar now."

The steely, dangerous gaze that had filled the King’s eyes just a few seconds ago roars to life once again, and his wings flare out, his body growing tense. “No, Grimm. I will not let your strange superstitions involving the Void get in the way of the kingdom’s salvation.”

"This isn't a superstition, you little-" He cuts himself off, taking a breath and pointing sharply at the ashes swirling around the jar. "Those are _my_ ashes, Pale King. You put _my ashes_ in a jar with _Void._ And you did so _without_ my permission."

“I don’t see why that matters; they’re just simple specks of dust that you left behind, and even then, it’s not like there’s any point to you getting them back. Why do you insist on it so badly? You should be relieved! For both me and you! Our work has become so much easier just from this one simple test!”

Grimm stares at him for a moment, one eye twitching as he resists the urge to either ignite the room on fire or bash his head against a wall. He wasn't particularly sure whose head he was talking about either. Oh dear.

"Pale King....” he says slowly, “you have, in your hand, not only the Void, but a shaving of _my essence._ And the two are intermingling. Do you have any idea what you could be doing?"

His eyes flick down to the swirling ashes, to the hissing, gurgling shape of the Void’s writhing form, and he hesitates for only a moment. When he speaks, his voice is soft, and so, _so_ confused. “...But they’re just ashes… What can be done with just a few ashes?”

"If I were shave your horns and add them to a little bit of Void, what do you think would result?" He scowls. "Your essence would still linger, no matter how small the size. I don't know _what_ would happen, but I know the Void well enough to say they'd do _something_ with it. The Void can do more than just _destroy_ after all."

That gets the King’s face to twist into shock, and he looks upward. “...What?”

"Ah." His scowl softens somewhat, and he huffs. His mind spun into high gear to make up for his loose tongue. "You've seen what the Void does to a body. It dismantles it, sure, but there's that moment before it, where it does something else. It's forging a connection."

“...But those are because of the runes, are they not? The runes gives the Void commands to follow. I need something that the Void _can’t_ break down so that it won’t simply destroy the body once the commands have run it’s course. And the ashes have proven that it is possible!”

"Of _course_ it's possible! It's _godly material!_ " He sharply waves a hand, again indicating the jar in the King's hands.

“I-I… It still means that there’s a way for me to possibly use the Void in my efforts to stop the infection… It has to..” His eyes gain a more desperate look to them, and his arms begin to shake. “...They’re starting to ask questions… They’re losing more every day.... an entire section of my capital was overrun...”

"And we will find a way to stop it, but you _will not_ be using those ashes, understand? Aside from me plainly being uncomfortable with the idea of any part of me coming near the Void, I _did not_ volunteer those ashes and _you_ did not ask permission to use them. Am I clear?"

He stares down at the jar for a moment, but then sighs. “...Yes...”

"Now. Remove the ashes."

The King stares at the ashes for just a moment longer before he removes the lid, and lets his hand light up with his magic. He waits, one second, two, but the Void doesn’t move from it’s confines in the jar. It just stays there, motionless. He frowns, softly, confusion filling him, his thoughts coming to a halt. “...What...”

Grimm squints, tensing at the stillness of the jar's contents. It had been squirming about just seconds ago, but as soon as the lid was... removed.... His eyes widened a moment before the goop shot out from the glass prison hitting the ceiling with a wet _thunk_ and crawling with what could almost be seen as misshapen arms. "Oh no. Oh _gods_ no."

“Wh-What’s happening?!” The King’s wings flare, and his eyes are wide with alarm. He raises a hand towards the blob, and for a moment his claws glow with magic, before a small beam of light shoots out towards it.

The mass of shifting blackness unlatches from the ceiling, stretching thinly and, just for a moment, seems to sprout wings and hover midair below the attacks. A stocky, tapered body forms, headless, and the strange creature careens to the side, unable to keep its own balance. Grimm watches, heart throbbing painfully at the sight, watching as it tried to use wings it wasn't meant to bear, and something in him snaps as it suddenly drops and topples into a pile of poorly maintained armour.

_Spare its suffering._

He barely recognizes he had teleported until he had scooped the ebony mass from the ground. So small. Its little tail lashes, wings threatening to beat upward and fly-

Pure crimson flames engulf his hands, the crackling of flames overpowering any screams the creature might have given off, and he watches, impassive, as it twists and flails and thrashes above his open palms.

The King was frozen as he watched the Void’s erratic, incomplete transformation, watched it stumble and fly around with new limbs that it had yet to control, had yet to figure out, the ashes still swirling within, beginning to grow larger and larger within it’s abyssal body, undulating and stretching in a way that could only be described as unnatural. It was only when Grimm’s claws had wrapped right around it’s throat, his body momentarily flickering with unseen power, that the King found himself blinking, swearing that, just for a moment, something else had been standing there in front of him. Then Grimm’s claws caught fire, and the abomination burned, screeching and screaming all the while, writhing in a mass of tendrils and half formed claws before it simply lost shape, drenching Grimm’s talons and dripping down to the floor with a large splash.

For a moment, a long, tense moment, Grimm does nothing but stare at his hands. He stares at the puddle beneath him, notes the lack of a single fleck of ash, watches as the puddle lays lifeless on the ground, as if it had never been removed from the Abyss itself, as if it had never once moved itself for any reason. His shoulders shake, and he's certain his hands shake too, but he refuses to believe anyone but himself could notice it.

He knew he was lying to himself.

The anger from before reignites and he's on his feet in seconds, and the Pale King is before him, and he can't stop himself from grabbing him by the collar of his robes and shaking him, just a little bit as he glares down at him, swallowing the stinging pain halting a growl in his throat and making his insides churn unpleasantly. There are so many words he wants to say. _So many._ But his throat isn't working and his jaw isn't moving and he could _feel_ the fire eating away at his fingertips.

He wondered, fleetingly, what the Pale King saw in his eyes.

The King found himself at a loss for words, as he watched the black ooze dripping down Grimm’s clenched fingers, and he found himself frozen, his hand stretched out in midair, as if somehow the simple gesture would be enough to somehow placate the situation and make the God before him forget about the rage that was surely building inside. He inhaled, to speak, to apologize, he didn’t know, for the next thing he knew, blazing claws were hooked into his robes, and his back had been slammed against the wall, his wings flared wide with alarm and his hand reflexively shooting out to grip the crimson God’s Void-dripping limbs. “Ghh-!...Grimm...Grimm, unhand me...”

A shaky breath escapes him, and he finally manages to fill his lungs again, just enough to reclaim the use of his voice. He tightens his grip on the King's robes, lifting him just a touch higher, and leans in close to his face. " _Never_ again-" His voice breaks and he forces another stuttering breath through his lungs. " _Promise me_ you will never do this - to another god - _ever_ again."

The King’s back and wings are left to helplessly scrape against the rock of the wall as Grimm forces him up higher, and he winces at the sharp, new pain that flares within his body, a cold feeling of dread beginning to well within his body. Grimm could possibly attack him, wound him, marr him and leave him to suffer in this uphill battle all alone. He could deal with the sensation of a knife in his throat, of seeing the grief in the eyes of two parents, of being skewered by blades and seeing a flash of his lover’s blood...But this...if Grimm left...if he was abandoned now...

His hand was squeezing down tighter against the God’s wrist, hoping to somehow break the tight hold on his robes, when Grimm’s voice breaks through the silence, and it is full of a choking pain that he had never heard before. He stares for a long, long moment, and then softly nods. “..I promise...”

Grimm watches him, searching for any ounce of treachery, and then, finally, his hands jerk open and the King crumples to the ground. He stumbles back, shoulders hunching in on himself, and he barely manages to fall gracefully to the ground himself, clenching his fists and trying to calm his uneven breathing.

The King wishes he could’ve landed gracefully, but he found his legs giving out the moment they touched the floor, not even making an effort to get up or even lift his face off the floor. Instead, all he does is merely curl up into a ball, his back stinging sharply as it is exposed to the open air of the workroom, and yet he barely feels the pain. The only thing he feels is exhaustion, draining his body of warmth, of energy, and when he blinks he finds tears rolling down his cheeks, tears that he cannot even begin to explain how or why they appeared. He stares, stares down at his hands, his chest, still scarred with soft red lines, and he closes his eyes harshly, his hands moving up to clutch his head.

A long moment of nothing happens between them. No words are exchanged, no thoughts shared, no movement. A heavy air of terrified _something_ hangs in the room, slowly receding with every breath the Nightmare King takes. His knees pull up, and he tiredly rests his forehead against them. One of his fingers goes numb with a disproportionate amount of weight pressed on it, but he either doesn't seem to care or doesn't notice. He forces a deeper breath into his lungs, and holds it. This would be easier with his Troupe, and he could easily disappear and return to them, but... no, there were too many things that could go wrong. He couldn't run the risk. He couldn't. His breath exhales, loud in the otherwise silent work room.

The King remains motionless, unmoving, his torn, bloodied robes and the way he’s laying making him look so much more small, so much more weaker than what he normally seemed to be. It barely even looked like he was breathing.

Grimm takes another deep breath, raising his head for fresh air. Guh. He felt foggy. Unclear. He stretches his claws and stands, taking another breath and closing his eyes as a small wave of dizziness hit him. Another exhale and he opens his eyes, watching the Pale King for a moment. He could feel his heart beating. He isn't dead. But he looks close to it. Maybe not literally. But on some level, yes. A pang of guilt hits him when he recalls the injuries - he didn't even know how severe they were - the King was still recovering from.

He walks toward him, slowly, both unsure in his own footing and in how the King would respond to him. He makes it to him without much issue, and, after another moment of staring and watching him, he turns and sits in front of him, leaving just barely an inch of space between his back and the King's folded limbs. He takes another breath, purposefully loud, holds for a count, and releases. A faint wave of warmth radiates from him, and he pulls his knees up to his chest and rests his arm and chin on them.

"I'm... sorry."

There was nothing for a few moments, not even the twitching of his wings. His eyes weren’t even closed, they just seemed to be staring, staring off into the distance, as if seeing something that Grimm himself could not perceive. His hands were loosely curled against his head, his tail was limp on the ground, and his back had very faint red marks, just between where the wings sprouted free from his flesh. His light was so dim, that were it not for the nearby lumafly lanterns, they would both be submerged in darkness. Grimm can tell just by looking at him that his mind is spiraling towards a darkness that not many easily crawl their way back from. The process was slow, subtle, almost monotonous. But it was there, all the same.

The Pale King takes one rattling breath, and his eyes close. “...I haven’t slept in so long...”

"Sleep would do your mind well." He keeps his voice soft, and the heat radiating from him comfortable. "If you want, I can help you."

His voice is so soft and broken that it cracks in the first word. “...Please....I don’t want Her in my head...”

"I can hold her off. You're safe while I'm here."

“...Thank you...Grimm..” His eyes flutter and flicker, as if some unknown fear is desperately trying to tell him to stay awake, but it’s a fight he ends up losing with such warmth so close to his skin. His eyes fall shut, and his breathing begins to deepen. His mind is swallowed by darkness, and for once, the pain, the exhaustion, the fear, all drain away.

Grimm hums gently, a small tune falling from his lips, and settles his chin on his arms again as he feels the King's breaths fall into a more steady, regular rhythm. He could feel himself dipping toward sleep. Mm. Interesting how a few short minutes could tire someone so. He closes his eyes. Well, if he wanted the King to sleep, he might as well exert a somewhat stronger magic. And the workroom was shut away from typical travelers. He presses his forehead to his arms and eases another breath from his lips. A short rest it is.

 

•••

 

The first thing that PK became aware of was the smell of something burning, though he didn’t recognize it as such at first. It was such a faint, light aroma that it took at least two breaths before he realized it was there at all. It was smoky, earthy, pungent in a sort of overly thick way that almost felt as if he was breathing in something that was not entirely air. It was a familiar scent, one he had not smelled in a long, long time. His eyes open, slowly, and his vision, though blurry, makes out what appear to be layers of shining fabric draped across the ceiling, long metallic vases that held smoking embers of fire dangling from up above via chains, and even what appear to be small charms of yarn and beads and gemstones. Dreamcatchers.

He blinks, once again, recognizing the strange smell, and slowly sits up, finding that he was resting upon a nest of pillows and blankets. Scrolls and quills and notebooks filled to the literal brim with old scrawls were littered everywhere, along with bottles of random drinks and plates of half-eaten food. The balcony doors were closed, the stained glass windows glowing with a faint red light, and if he looked close enough, the air was filled with faint crimson shimmers of essence. His robes were no longer bloodied or stained, nor did they carry the symbol of his crown, but were merely blank in the places where the insignia would go. He was in a place that had been lost to time.

"Shocking, isn't it?" An audible crunch sounds from off to his side and he sees a tall, robed figure munching on an apple while leaning against a wall. Their sleeves drooped, a bright red ringing the cuffs and a dark, brownish black filling the rest of the space. A few golden bands circled their horns, varying in width, and a chain dangled from one to another. Their lips quirked, eyes narrowing and crinkling the signature lines tracing their cheeks. "Long time, no see, handsome."

The King stares for a moment, in utter shock, trying to rationalize how this could possibly be happening, how the dead could simply come back to life after untold centuries of being lost to time. But then, the realization hits him, and he feels himself grow a soft, shaky smile. “...This is a dream, is it not?”

"Or a nightmare, but the lines between those are pretty shaky, aren't they? All you need for a nightmare is a bit of shock value after all." They take another bite, and then walk over to where he lays amongst the pillows and blankets. "May I?"’

“Surprised you’re asking for permission this time.” He does end up shifting to the side in order to make room, his wings idly twitching, already looking more relaxed.

"Hey, you know how I am about married men." He shrugs and practically falls into the nest of comfort, sighing. "It's been a while, friend. A long while."

“Indeed, it certainly has been… Admittedly my memory had gotten slightly fuzzy; I mistook Grimm for you when I had first summoned him.” He smirks a bit at that and shakes his head. “Of course just seeing that insufferable face of yours is more than enough to locate the differences.”

"Ah, heheheh. You and your _charm._ " He lightly whacks his shoulder. "You should be glad he didn't stick to the same face as mine. Definitely wouldn't have matched the aesthetic he was going for."

“Heheh...” His grin wears off, and he visibly sags, his head coming to rest on the other’s shoulder, sighing. “...You would’ve loved what I made. I made a kingdom, a real one, not just a confined temple of worship filled with slaves and dreamers.... It’s so beautiful… I named it Hallownest.”

"Hallownest. Mm, yes. I've seen glimpses, through Grimm, over the years." He watches him, still grinning. "I like the architecture. Very elegant, but strong."  

He nods softly, a hand coming up to squeeze one of the other’s own, thumb idly toying with a ring. “Thank you… Lurien helped us build the infrastructure. You remember him, right? And Monomon? And Herrah?”

"Heh. How could I forget? Such a lively crew. Remember when they decided to let Monomon cook for them all? Oh, couldn't hear the end of it." He laughs.

A smile creeps back and he shakes his head. “Oh, that was utterly dreadful. One of those nights I wish I could’ve forgotten. Should’ve realized a jellyfish would have no concept of fire.”

"It wasn't _too_ bad, as far as raw food goes." He waves a hand, vaguely, crossing one leg over the other. "Sadly, Lurien's constitution was nowhere near average levels. How is he, by the way? Still keeping to himself?"

“He built an entire tower to watch over the capital of the Kingdom; that’s probably the closest a disciple of mine can get to keeping to themselves.” He chuckles slightly. “Calls himself The Watcher now, makes a job of sending me daily Reports of the kingdom and informs me of anything that needed to be fixed. I...” His eyes flick away, and his mood sours a bit. “...I don’t leave my Palace much.”

"Hm." He turns his head a little, careful to not poke himself on the King's crown. "There was a time before we met that I did something similar. Before Troupes and far flung travels and inspecting the odd curiosity." He rests his cheek against his forehead. "Solitude can be both good and bad. Do not compare yourself to the whims of others."

“I know… I sometimes feel as if I’m not trying hard enough, even though I’m trying as hard as I can. The only reason we’re even speaking is because I just couldn’t stay awake any longer, but I didn’t want… Her… getting in my head. I won’t let Her in my mind.” His eyes darken, and the windows to the balcony flicker with a faint silhouette of a monster that they both wished to be long gone. “...Not again..”

"I would have thought that terror had been cast off long ago." A hand squeezes the King's. "Didn't you slay her after she...?"

“Yes… I gained the moths as an ally not long afterwards. They were shaken by her cruelty, by what was then a looming threat of absolute tyranny. They banded together with me and my power, wore her down to nothing. I struck her down, killed her body and left it to rot.... But I was a fool.” His hand squeezes back. “The Light still lives, and now it is nothing more than a festering plague that invades the minds of my subjects and forever locks them into an eternal slumber, doomed to worship Her Light, mindless, and lost.”

He says nothing for a long moment, and then shifts and huddles close to the Pale King's side, nuzzling his head under his chin and making a small huffing noise. "I wish I had known earlier. Grimm does not... often converse with his Heart."

The King’s arms find themselves wrapping around the other’s form, nestling around his sides and across his back in a familiar manner that he had not felt in a long time, and yet still fell into so very easily. If he concentrated, he could still feel the warm of his body, of his skin against his own, and for a moment, his thoughts are lulled into complacency, of comfort, nuzzling the closest horn. But then he blinks softly, dismissing the haze, and he sighs heavily. “It’s not like you could be of much help now. You’re dead, and with your death, you left your Troupe behind to revive you. I don’t think anything could help me face Her now. Not you, or my Lady, or even the Void.”

He then goes still, for a moment, and a chill makes his blood run cold, the hypothetical consequences of what he was considering making a lump grow in his throat. His hands clench, and his wings begin to tremble. The lights surrounding them, the candles and dreamcatchers, begin to dim, to grow ever so slightly darker.

A single finger touches his forehead, and their surroundings settle once again. "Shh. Thinking so loudly in a place of thoughts is not the wisest thing to do when trying to remain unseen, my friend. And, truly, what is death at this point? I would consider myself alive, at least in some sense of the word." He moves his hand to the side of his face, moving back just enough to look into the Pale King's eyes. "What do you need to ask of me?"

The sight of those crimson eyes, so familiar, so warm and loving, so very different from Grimm’s own yet so eerily the same, is enough to have his heart throb, and his hand moves up to gently grip the one resting on his cheek, trying to find a way to calm the shakiness in his limbs, in his body. “...Would you truly betray your kin so willingly? To reveal what he sought to not tell me?”

"I have nothing to fear from Grimm. The fact that he stays by your side in this says much more than I could explain in our time here. I doubt he'd see it as true betrayal." He strokes his cheek and smirks. "Plus, he deserves it for being so distant."

That gets the King to grow silent for a moment or two, before he takes a deep breath, speaking softly, urgently. “I need you to tell me about the Void. Everything you know of it. It’s the only feasible way I can think of possibly quelling the infection, but it’s too destructive, too corrosive, and no matter what I do I can’t get it to stay contained without destroying the body that carries it. I can’t use a Mould, they’re too weak, too flimsy; there’s no way they could withstand the power of a God; they’re nothing more than a pocket of Void within an empty husk of metal armor. I need something else, something concrete, something that can stop the Void from consuming it from within but also... also allow the Void to remain in it’s natural state… Th-The only thing that’s gotten even remotely close to that was a pile of Grimm’s ashes but it... it mutated, it grew misshapen, it mutated and was completely out of control… I… I need something else, but I don’t know what it is, and I’m running out of time and I need to find a solution quickly or- or else… or else...”

He didn’t even realize how hard it was to suddenly breathe.

"Hey, hey." He strokes his cheek and gently pulls the King into a sitting position. "It'll be alright. Breathe with me, hm? In.... out.... In...." He exhales his breath with the King, who had reached up and taken hold of his wrist between breaths. "There we are. One more breath, dear. In...."

His eyes squeeze shut for a moment in order to concentrate, the sound of the voice in his mind starting to loosen the metaphorical tendrils that had wrapped themselves around his windpipe, and he shudders, finally beginning to breathe deeper, slower. He blinks once, twice, before he sags against the other’s chest, sighing heavily. “...I think that’s the third time that’s happened to me within the past several hours.”

"I can feel how tense you are, my dear." He holds him close, rubbing the back of his head soothingly. "I'm glad Grimm thought to give you time to rest, although... I think he may have to be the one to tell you the majority of what you're asking for."

“He won’t tell me. There’s… There’s something holding him back from saying it. I don’t wish to do this, but I _need_ to figure something out.” His own arms are still wrapped around the other’s torso, fingers loosely clutching the back of his robes.

"Yes, and... I think if you tell him something rather specific, he'll know to tell you. Or show you, rather." A sigh whispers from their mouth, a hand gently stroking one of the spires of the King's crown. "I don't think we'd have much time together after I tell you what needs to be said, though."

His eyes close for a moment. “...You can tell me when you’re ready to. I understand. I’ve missed you too.”

"Mm." He sighs again, merely watching him for a moment. It was difficult to tell himself to move on, that there were more pressing matters to attend to. The idea of merely sitting there together for eons was tempting, but... Well. Someday, maybe. But not today. "Grimm knows more about the Void than he let's on. We all do. There's a... connection to it that we've determined. It's difficult to describe even with a full memory of it, so try to be patient with him. I can only imagine he feels as frustrated as you will."

“...What do you mean by connection? Who’s _we?_ ”

"Heheh." A smile stretches across his face, but he doesn't answer. "It will pain him to explain the ashes, what it was and what he needed to do, but he will describe it if pressed. You will need to understand it in order to move forward in your work."

The King pulls back, slowly, and his hands move to cup his face. “...Is there anything else you can tell me? Anything at all?”

"Hm. The deed that will close this meeting, yes." He leans into his hands, eyes closing almost all the way. "I've missed this."

The King feels his heart throb, and he smiles softly. “Me too...”

He opens his eyes again, watching him for a moment before reaching up to run a thumb along the King's jaw. "May I have a kiss before we part?"

“Heh...Always the romantic sap that asks for permission.” He nods softly, feeling a sour warmth building in his chest.

"You're one to talk." He leans forward, pausing just in front of him, and purrs lightly, holding his jaw and pressing their lips together, soft and gentle.

The King’s eyes flutter shut, and he can’t help but shiver, feeling a tear slip down his cheek. The feeling of those lips on his, their mandibles just barely clicking together… It felt exactly the same as it used to all those centuries ago.

He catches the tear with a thumb and wipes it away, not letting it fall into their kiss, and, after another few moments longer, pulls away and leans their foreheads together. He takes a breath, the sound shaky, and seems to go to speak, but the sound comes out strangled and he instead pushes his forehead against him in some rougher form of a nuzzle. He clears his throat. "It's a name. All you need to ask of him is a name."

The King’s hands drift to the other’s, squeezing down in an effort to give him something to hold onto, something to anchor to. “Say it, please. Say the name.”

He takes a breath, brushing his thumb against his cheek one last time. "Shade Lord."

The King's eyes opened, and the stinging of his back returned.

 

•••

 

There were certain areas of Hallownest most bugs deemed too dangerous to venture into. Whether it be unsteady pathways or pockets of ill-intended crooks, everyone knew what places held what perils. They also knew that great risks meant great rewards. And, sometimes, on the occasion fate decided to open its curtain in a show of good faith, a safe place could be found amongst all the danger.

The Teacher's Archives were well-known in this way. To some of the more far off bugs within the kingdom's walls, it was a place of far flung stories, where magic seemed to be bubbling away right alongside the treacherous acid surrounding the place. There were safe ways to get there, of course, a network of tunnels and boats that were well hidden to the wary outsider, but the eccentricities of Fog Canyon - and, perhaps even more importantly, the eccentricities of the Teacher herself - maintained hushed conversations all over the kingdom. The Teacher was well-known for her experiments, for some of the designs that went into the more elaborate and modern traveling systems, and even for certain styles of writing and abbreviated forms of communication that helped make the messaging systems more efficient, and, properly enough for the guards and other high end officers, difficult to decipher information on a need-to-know basis.

It was currently known as a last vestige of hope for those unfortunate enough to be struck - or have a loved one struck - by the illness creeping its way through Hallownest's core.

Bugs from all over the west side had taken it upon themselves to cross the bubbling waters, one way or another, to seek the Teacher's advice. They had first come with isolated cases, which slowly turned to multiple cases a week, and then multiple a day, until a steady stream of people came to the Archives in search of some mysterious remedy hidden in the knowledge embedded in its walls and its caretakers. The busier of tunnels, which should have only been known by those academics working alongside the Teacher, became something of a waiting room as room within the Archives dwindled. The sick were taken immediately, but the families were left outside, anxiously waiting their turn to hear news or visit patients.

Lurien knew that he didn’t need his gift of Sight to see that the Archives was becoming more and more like a hospital with every single hour that rushed by. He never looked out the windows anymore, not wanting to gaze upon the faces of the crying and hopeless. Where there was once large tubes of boiling liquid that held untold knowledge, there was now beds and cots and the sick, tied down by leather straps. Tools of creation and science were twisted into tools of surgery and dissection, constantly cutting and slicing into flesh with the sheer hopes that removing the orange pustules within the body would somehow stall the symptoms. Even the acid that flooded through the halls and walls were now being fed the bodies of those who had no family to call their own, to make sure that their cold bodies never came back. It was sickening, vile, and he drove himself as deep into the Archives as he could, just to get away from the sounds of anguished crying and diseased snarls.

He was crouched over what he deemed to be his own personal desk, littered with dried ink vials and half-finished paperwork, the room nothing more than a massive dome, lit with the harsh glow of a massive acidic tank, causing the walls to gleam with a sickly green hue. He lifts up his mask slightly to sip at a long cold cup of coffee, the bitter flavor and the absence of warmth making him wince in slight disgust, but forced himself to drink nonetheless; he needed every drop if he wanted to stay awake. He shuddered slightly, as if the sheer mention of sleep felt like a chill running down his spine, and he shook his head to dispel the thoughts scratching at the back of his head, squeezing his claws into the palm of his free hand in an effort to use pain to distract himself.

He hears the sound of slithering, wet and rough and absolutely revolting, and he turns his head to see Monomon enter the room, tucking his mask back into place. “Any sign of her yet?”

"Nothing yet." It's the closest he's seen her to sighing, and probably the closest he'll ever see her to being annoyed outside of personal debates and lecture halls. Halls that had long since been closed. "Today's shipments of caffeine came, though, and what can be distributed is making the rounds. Quite a few more bugs from Greenpath, too." She sidles up next to him, glancing at the papers but not quite reading the contents. "Still doing paperwork, I see."

“Have to. Morgues have to be informed of the dead, as do the families and friends. I think these are the papers from yesterday. Still at least 5 more to go. I’m getting there.” He lifts up his mask to take another swig of coffee, taking long gulps, almost draining the whole thing completely, lowering the mug to let his tongue briefly hang out in disgust. “Blugh...The powder in this tastes like shit.” He sets the mug down and turns his head to face her. “How’s that kid of yours doing?”

She beams, the smile, as ever, evident from behind her mask. "He's doing brilliantly, as always. Keeps getting into another book or finding new crevices in the walls. I'm honestly glad he's so active; he's taken the long hours almost like a challenge. He should be in the nursery right about now. I don't know how or why he's so good with the children, but it's definitely something everyone is grateful for."

“Hmm.... Any signs of exhaustion from him yet?”

"Well, he isn't exactly jumping five feet in the air these days." She slithers to a nearby shelf holding tubes of information, picking through them. "He hasn't started nodding off, from what I've seen, and he's been entirely present during conversations, so no signs so far."

“Good, good… Tell me the second you start seeing anything, ok? I’ve been working on some emergency mixtures just in case all of us start to slip. In the meantime, we’ll make do.” He finishes off the rest of the coffee.

"Yes, I'll do that." Monomon pauses slightly, then puts a scroll back on the shelf and takes another. "What kind of 'emergency mixtures' do you have? Or should we save that for when Herrah arrives?"

“I’m not entirely sure if they would help what she’s planning. What I got is basically a highly concentrated mixture of caffeine and other substances like it. It’s supposed to be a last resort. In case we all start to… sleep.”

His hands clench around his mug, and for a split second, his vision flickers.

_City. Crowd. Tired faces. Child. Child shaking shoulder. Child screaming at mother. Mother sitting against wall. Mother slipping away. Sleep. Infection. Death._

"Hm." Monomon turns back to him, watching him carefully. "I have faith that we'll find something more permanent before it gets to that point. There has been some progress with slowing the infection's spread, after all."

He blinks, forces himself to - forces himself to shake his head, and it takes a moment for him to process what was said. “...Right, right...” He sighs, softly, and for a moment, nothing is said.

She continues watching him. "You seem a little tired yourself. Have you tried taking a walk through the halls? I know it isn't particularly... pleasant with what you can hear, but moving might be better than doing paperwork. Speaking practically, of course."

“No, no, I’m fine. Moving around isn’t exactly something I’m used to doing...” He pauses for a moment, then sighs and pushes back from his desk to stand up, stretching his back with a small grunt of effort, before he visibly relaxes. “...Have you heard anything from King, yet?”

"Nothing specifically _from_ him, but some news has been spreading." She wraps two of her tentacles around each other, frowning. "You were right about what you saw yesterday. There was an attack on the King. Two perpetrators, one of whom was executed shortly after... well. It appears he landed a blow on the King. The Queen was injured as well. Nothing serious, but...." She looks aside, shaking her head.

“Gods...” He looks downwards, hands shaking slightly at remembering the flashes of blood, the echoes of screaming and sounds of blades clashing. “Either that was the infection, or it was an attempted coup...”

" _Both,_ " she whispers, "if the reports are right."

“...Then that just confirms our suspicions...” His hands clench, and his expression turns grim. “....She’s back...”

Her tentacles tense, a few twitching where they rested and coiled along the ground. "Lurien...." The tube in her grasp quivers with how tightly it's held. Her eyes stay glued to the wall over her shoulder.

He turns to face her, voice growing louder, less shaky. “We’ve seen the signs, Monomon, there is no avoiding it. The catatonic state of the mind, the fact that the patients speak of a burning light in their heads and a voice in their thoughts. They fall asleep, they fall asleep and they wake up _dead._ ”

"If She's back, I can't stop her," she almost snaps, tendrils curling uncomfortably. "Science can't - there's only so much I would be able to do, even if I had all the time in the world."

“You know Her, you’ve lived under Her, same as I have, same as Herrah has. I of all people _know_ what that fucking _light_ does to someone’s mind.” His left hand drifts to his mask, clutching it like it’s a bleeding wound. “It… It...” He shakes his head again, almost violently. “This… This is worse. This is so much worse, Monomon, and you know that.”

She stays silent for a long moment, and then finally releases a sigh, tilting her head back as she takes another breath. "Alright. Alright. It... _does_ appear to be her signature... _abilities_ . Also explains the targeted areas. But a problem brought about by a god can only be solved by a god, Lurien." She shakes her head, rubbing her mask. "We can find ways to suppress her power, but it would be futile without the help of another god. The King is working on his own solutions, which should be promising, but if we want any preventative measures to _last_ we would need either his help or the Queen's, _personally_."

Lurien goes quiet himself, and he looks away. “...And they probably can’t do such a thing. Not now, not when someone tried to usurp them.”

"And _I_ can't leave with all the experiments and handling the crowds, and the last time _you_ went down there, so close to-" She cuts herself off, eyes widening. "I - I'm sorry. I shouldn't have... Forgive me."

He tries to restrain himself, tries to hold back the flinch that so desperately wanted to make him cower at the sheer mention of that..horrible moment. He turns away, and he slides a hand beneath his mask, shaking softly, breathing growing slightly heavier, heart thundering away in his chest. “...It’s… It’s fine… I’m fine...”

Monomon raises a tendril to try and offer some comfort, but hesitates and instead moves to put the scroll still in her clutches back on the shelf next to her. "We could... we could always request something to be shipped to us, though we would need to know what to request. It would take time as well, but it would be something."

He slowly takes a deep breath, and nods, straightening his back. “Right… Of course. Any suggestions for what to request? I can never fully see the King, so I don’t know what he’s planning to do, but perhaps combining our efforts would aid in finding the ‘cure’ so to speak.”

She frowns in thought. "He would have informed us if he wanted us to know, but offering our help might at least let him know he has more resources. I can only imagine he recognized this before we did." She taps her cheek. "It would have to be physical, so it can be transported safely and citizens could use it. Something to block dreams... induce sleep without dreams...."

He stares for a moment before his head tilts. “Is such a thing possible? We all dream, it is just a factor of nature. The only dreams we don’t have are the ones we can’t remember.”

"Well, as far as we know that last part is conjecture, mostly." She taps her cheek again, faster, a few of her tendrils passing over scrolls as if in afterthought. Or maybe forethought. One could never tell with Monomon. "Sure, we know some dreams are forgotten, but not _every_ time we sleep do we dream. Otherwise _everyone_ who's fallen asleep since day one would be infected. Plus, the mind needs time to rest in order to organize things. No rest means you start deleting things needlessly to make room for more data. That's why staying up for hours on end makes people forgetful, not to mention clumsy and unfocused and such. Which is something we're going to want to avoid as we move forward, especially with so many people traveling around the Canyons. But how to do it? Hmm...."

Lurien goes silent for a moment, and he has to avoid jolting when another vision passes over his mind, and it’s one that causes his breath to hitch.

_Darkness. Cliffs. Wind. Flame. Bright. Burning._

His body freezes, and for a moment, he says nothing. Then, his voice comes again, as a whisper. “...They’ve returned.”

"Huh?" She blinks, tilting her head to look at him more fully. "They've returned? Who? Where?" She instantly grows worried. "It isn't the Palace, is it? There isn't another attack?"

“No, no, it’s near the cliffs, on the edge of the King’s Pass. It’s them, the… The Vermillion Mayhem. They’ve returned, they came back, after all this time..”

" _The_ Vermillion Mayhem?" She surges forward, almost too close to him, eyes searching his. "The Nightmare King's clan? But they - they all but _scattered_ last we saw. And why _now?_ Of all times to come..."

He takes a step back in alarm, his mask’s singular eye growing wide “I-I don’t know! My sight caught a glimpse of their flames! I don’t know what they’re doing here, but they’ve come back!”

" _Vermillion. Mayhem._ " She says it like she's tasting a fine wine, trying to coax it’s every little fact from just its name. A brusque laugh falls from her. "Mayhem is back. How apropos. And near the cliffs? I suppose that would be easier to travel than the mountains. But are you _sure_ it was them? Not some offshoot or some - some other band of misfits? It really is... them?"

He looks down for a moment before looking back up, nodding. “It has to be. Their flames were crimson. As red as blood. I could feel their magic even from here. It’s them.”

"Heh." An air of nostalgia filters into her. " _Reborn from the ashes, a new dawn in a dawnless land._ "

He can’t help but smile a bit beneath his mask, and his shoulders go lax. “ _The beast of Nightmare will rise again._ ”

" _As death begets life. Or else, why does civilization exist in the first place?_ " She chuckles. "Even after all this time. Artistry really does linger in the minds of the young."

“Young? I hardly say we’re young at this point.” He chuckles as well, and for a moment, all his exhaustion seems to lift from his features.

"Well, we were, back then. In comparison to now, at least." She moves to his desk, leaning on what little space wasn't covered in paper. "Now we're just slowly wrinkling, dust collecting beings bathing in acid to imitate a young complexion."

He lets out a playful scoff and points over at her. “Uh, no, _you_ bathe in acid. _I_ don’t bother to hide my age.”

"Heheheh." She covers her mouth, despite her mask already covering it. "Remember that time the King asked us if time seemed to wear on him? Some assistant of his commented on his age and it stuck to him for _weeks._ "

That gets him chuckling, his shoulders shaking slightly. “Oh, of course I do. He looked so offended, it was like watching a kicked larvae. What exactly did that assistant say, again?”

"Hmm.... Something along the lines of _Only older bugs send messages like that these days._ Oh, the days of long-winded overtures."

He snickers a bit harder. “Oh, oh my gods, that’s right. Honestly, I don’t know why King doesn’t consider himself old? I mean, technically he’s been alive for longer than either me or you.”

"You or I," she corrects. "I only imagine it has something to do with how long he's had this form. He speaks like his past as a Wyrm was always someone else."

“Hmm… I suppose that’s true… Seems kind of odd, how he… became something else when he died, you know? I’ve heard stories of Wyrms, even back then. The Drakes, The Destroyers, The Creations of Death. How can something like that… become something like us?” His gaze becomes a touch more somber. “It’s almost funny… I’ve known him for as long as I can remember and yet I still never figured it out….”

"Sometimes I wonder if even he understands it. Rebirth. Hm." She rubs her chin. "Could have been a strange function of birth, actually. Wyrms were said to hold magic. Directly from gods. If he could twist just a few things..."

“Perhaps… It could be possible. I remember him acting… much more different back then. It shows how much he’s learnt and moved on.”

"He's always been a learner. Very much a scientist."

“Very much so....I’m just glad that we were able to see him create all of this. Makes me feel blessed to witness the might of a God and how they can change even the most desolate landscapes into… this.” He gestures around the room.

She chuckles again. "And a humble one at that. Barely takes credit when he clearly can. And should. The City plans were brilliant, even if he needed to consult others for verification."

“Of course, of course. It took me nearly wrestling the damn quill away from him just so I could make sure he didn’t scribble his name out of the blueprints.”

She shakes her head, giggling lightly at the idea and slowly lapsing into silence.

The silence seems to eat away at the mirth of the room, and Lurien’s expression drops into a soft frown beneath his mask. His voice is a soft, strained whisper. “....I don’t want this to disappear, Monomon. I… I… I don’t want the kingdom to end.... I don’t want… I...” Tears begin to drip from beneath his mask, slowly, and they’re colored a faint white.

Her head perks up, worry covering her, and she swiftly makes her way to him, carefully taking his hands but notably leaving some distance between them. "Hey, hey. We'll figure this all out. We always do. Problems always come with solutions. Some simply... take more time to find."

“...I know. I’m… I’m trying to… keep it together but.... My head.... I… I can still remember Her in my head...”

"You were... the closest to Her, while She...." Monomon gulps, looking aside for a moment, and tightens her grip on his hands. "Once we figure this out, she's done for. Gone for good. I know we've - already said that, but that was her physical form. If a Wyrm can die and become something more... mortal, then a god..." She shakes his hands. "We'll figure this out. I _know_ we will. Hallownest doesn't go out like this. I can _feel_ it."

“....Right… Right.... _H...Hallownest lasts eternal._ ”

"Precisely." She brings his hands together, covering them with her own tendrils. "We can withstand anything."

“..Right. Thank you… Heh… You always did manage to stay more calm than me...” He smiles beneath his mask, and he moves to hold her tendrils in his hands, giving them a tender squeeze.

"Well, you know what they say: a calm mind-"

A soft vibration runs throughout the room, the glass tubes along the walls humming and chiming, the scrolls laying on the shelving shuddering and clinking together. The floor rumbles, Monomon's tendrils curling upward in distaste. She squeezes Lurien's hands, looking around the room, almost frantic, as the low rumble subsides.

Lurien’s body tenses ever so slightly, and his head begins to turn this way and that, his fingers clenching down on Monomon’s tentacles. “What was that? A tremor?”

"That's what it felt like." She frowns. "If there's nothing else in a few-"

The entire room shakes, a few tubes sliding from the shelving and smashing onto the ground in small puddles of acid, Lurien's inkwell joining the ruckus and shattering into a million different pieces.

Lurien visibly jolts as the acid sloshes across the metallic floor, the sickly green substance remaining silent, as there was nothing for it to consume. The shaking worsens, and the two find themselves stumbling, unable to keep their footing, and Lurien’s voice is barely heard over the creaking and groaning of the Archive’s structure. “Oh my gods, oh my gods-“

Monomon swiftly wraps a tendril around her colleague and pulls him roughly to the side as another tube flies at him. She desperately reaches around for anything nearby to stabilize the two of them. A few tendrils find the desk. Another finds a lumafly lantern hanging on the wall by a hook. Lurien feels himself quiver, his arms wrapping tight around what he can hold of Monomon’s figure, and he has to suppress the urge to yelp the moment he feels his legs leave the ground, the acid just barely missing his feet as acid begins to leak free from the smashed tubes, the lumaflies buzzing frantically within their glass confines, causing the light to begin rapidly flickering back and forth.

"On the desk! You, get on the desk!"  Monomon practically shoves him onto the surface, the shaking of the room intensifying and the vibrations making the desk shudder and jump.

“AAaAGH-!” He lets out another yelp as he finds himself wobbling, just barely able to keep steady as the acid slowly, but steadily, hisses away at the thin copper material of the desk’s legs. He looks over at the broken pipes that once held the remains of the tubes, bubbling acid still pouring through them and splashing onto the floor, and his heart catches, head whipping towards the barely visible shadow of Monomon. “Don’t you have a way to turn off the acid flow?!”

"Yes, but if it's ruptured somewhere before it can go elsewhere, the acid in the pipes will leak down here anyways!" She glances at the doorway, then at the much closer wall. "Shut off valve should be..." She squints. "Did they _not_ install a valve on either side of this room? I _told them-_ "

Another set of tremors rocks the room, one of the shelving units visibly vibrating before flying off its fasteners, smacking the unit above it, and sending a cascade of glass and acid and text onto the floor.

The lumaflies’s light flickers even faster as their electric charge begins to grow, and Lurien feels himself scream, feels his heart beat quicken, feels the desk he’s perched on creak, and just his body begins to freeze, his eye burns as another vision is brought forth.

_Eyes. Eyes stare back._

The air above them explodes as the lumaflies let loose a bolt of blinding light, the sound of thunder crashing through the room, and then the room goes black.

There was a moment of heavy breathing, the faint, humming light of the acid pooling along the ground ominously lighting portions of the room. A tendril squeezes his sides, still wrapped around him.

"Lurien? Lurien, are you alright?"

Silence.

"Lurien?" A tendril pats around him, finally finding a knee and pausing there. "Talk to me, Lurien."

“...Something… Something’s happened...”

 

•••

 

**An Hour Earlier**

It wasn't often Grimm fell asleep on the ground - typically he slept on the ceiling, like a civilized person, thank you very much - and he found that, every time he differed from his typical routine, he came to regret it.

Now, laying on the ground and fairly certain he had just fallen sideways from where he had been sitting, was another one of these instances. He makes a small noise, blinking his eyes and only managing to open one, the other pressing uncomfortably into his arm. His legs were curled up, not tight but close, and he could feel the small aches that were indicative of a stiff, slouched posture he had spent centuries avoiding. Another noise left him, he stretched his legs, slowly working the movement into a full body stretch before going limp, eyes closing momentarily.

Guh. What was this floor made of? Cement? He'd have to tell the Pale King about the brilliance of _carpeting-_

Wait. His eyes snapped open again, and he unsteadily pushed himself halfway upright, arms not quite sure what to do or where to plant themselves. He flicks his head over his shoulder, finding the spot the King had last been empty. What? He blinks at the emptiness, and rubs his eyes as his eyes close and open one at a time. How long had he been asleep?

“I’m afraid I’m not interested in carpeting, Grimm. You’ve been asleep for at least three hours.” The voice of the King came from the other side of the room, and when Grimm looked up, he would see him sitting by his desk, idly staring at yet another Void jar, one hand holding his chin while another was clutching a fork that had a chunk of meat skewered on it. He didn’t even look at him. “There’s another plate if you’re hungry.”

"Huh?" He blinks at him, slowly putting together the idea of _fork meat food good_ as his stomach rumbles. Carpeting. Three hours. Gah. He must've actually said some of that out loud. How embarrassing. He exhales and unsteadily pushes himself to his feet, wincing as his knees pop and back throbs in protest. "I hate floors."

“I am aware. I believe the way you so eloquently put it was, ehem, ‘fuck floors and everything they stand for.’ Of course I could just be paraphrasing; your languages seemed to slur a little in the middle.” He takes another bite of his food.

Grimm watches him for a moment. Was he serious? He didn't _actually_ say that, did he? The Pale King says nothing, and not a hint of a smile quirks his lips. He grumbles, rubbing his hands against his face and over his horns before walking toward the desk, legs still not quite moving as elegantly as before. "You said there was food?"

The King’s now empty fork points over to a plate at least a foot away from his own, decorated with well-cooked slabs of meat along with vegetables and even a little cup of dipping sauce. “I didn’t know what you would prefer so I simply had the chefs bring up two plates of the same meal.”

"Hm." That was right. The ashes, the Void jar, the.... He stopped himself before he could give it a name, suppressing a shiver. "What's done is done. The past is the past." He stabs a chunk of meat and swallows it.

“...Funny you say that… Tell me, when I slept, did you cause me to dream?”

"I wasn't trying to, but I suppose it would make sense that you did. Why?" He rests his head on one hand raising a brow.

“...I met an old friend in that dream. But it wasn’t like reliving a memory or simply a construct of my subconscious. It felt real. _He_ felt real. Like he was really there. Like I was meeting him again after centuries of being apart.” His gaze grows bittersweet, and the hand cradling his chin briefly lifts up to idly rub a finger against his lips.

"Oh." His eyes dart away and to his plate, avoiding the look on the King's face. "Apologies for that, then. My presence has a tendency to bring old faces back to the present. A little side effect of my realm of influence, you could say."

“...That person was you. Or at the very least, what you used to be.”

He freezes with his fork halfway to his mouth, and then carefully puts the utensil back on his plate. He takes a breath, rubbing his face. It was too early for this. "What did they say?"

“He didn’t say anything, at least not for the moment. But he knew the threat of The Light far greater than you. He knew the urgency of my plight.” The Pale King too sets his fork down, his expression now growing grim. “...I believe there are some things you haven’t been telling me. I will give you the chance now to rectify that decision.”

"I don't know what you are talking about, Pale King." He exhales, arms dropping to cross over each other in front of his plate. "Perhaps it was merely a figment of your subconscious telling you your worries. That is how nightmares work, mostly."

His voice is a sharp, dangerous growl. “Do not play coy with me. Do not _lie_ to me. You have been hiding things from me, and it will stop _now._ ”

Grimm raises a brow, unperturbed by the outburst. "I don't think you're in a position to demand anything of me, Pale King, much less secrets that best remain hidden."

“Secrets that are an essential key to _saving my kingdom!_ ” He stands up and his wings flare, his light growing so bright it’s almost blinding, his glare icy and full of rage. “You know things about the Void! Things that even with all my prowess I couldn’t even possibly know! And you, you planned to keep them secret from me? Just standing by and watching me as I run myself into the ground day after each _wretched_ day trying to figure out the impossible? When were you going to tell me? Were you going to tell me at all? Or were you hoping to drain this kingdom dry until there would be nothing left of use for you?!”

" _Gods._ " Grimm raises a hand, covering his eyes and turning away. He could feel a headache coming on. "Eugh. See? This. _This_ is why I don't fraternize with other gods. None of you are willing to think outside your own petty existence, and then you turn and blame the person next to you for everything gone bad in your life."

For a moment, a single solitary moment, there was silence. Then next thing Grimm knew, there were claws at his throat, and his back had crashed up against the wall so violently he swore he felt the concrete behind him _crack._

“ _MY OWN EXISTENCE?!_ ” The King’s voice is so loud that the room briefly rumbles, and the Void within the jars all hiss in revulsion. “ _HOW DARE YOU!?_ HOW _DARE_ YOU EVEN ACCUSE ME OF SELFISHNESS WHEN I HAVE BEEN DRIVEN TO THE VERY EDGES OF MY _SANITY_ TRYING TO RESCUE MY PEOPLE FROM DAMNATION! WHEN I HAVE WORKED MYSELF TO THE BRINK, FRUITLESSLY CHIPPING AWAY AT AN IMPOSSIBLE GOAL, ALL THE WHILE _YOU_ HAD THE KEY TO MY PEOPLE’S SALVATION THE WHOLE TIME, _DANGLING IT JUST OUT OF MY REACH!_ ”

The hands squeeze down, slowly, but not shaking, not trembling, not showing even the slightest ounce of anger even as his voice continued to boom. “DO YOU HAVE _ANY IDEA_ WHAT I’VE WITNESSED HER _DO?!_ HOW MANY LIVES SHE’S _CLAIMED?!_ THE RADIANCE IS SPREADING LIKE WILDFIRE! SHE IS KILLING MEN, WOMEN, _CHILDREN,_ ENTIRE FAMILIES ALL FOR THE HOPES OF TAKING AWAY ALL THAT I HAVE WORKED TO ACHIEVE! WHAT I FOUGHT _TOOTH AND NAIL_ TO EARN! YOU CANNOT EVEN _BEGIN_ TO FATHOM WHAT I FACED WHEN I WAS FIRST IN HER GRASP, OF THE HORRORS I SAW, OF THE PAIN I _LIVED THROUGH._ OF WHAT I SAW _OTHERS_ LIVE THROUGH. I KILLED HER TO FREE THE LAND OF HALLOWNEST FROM TYRANNY, I SLAUGHTERED HER TO BREAK MY CHAINS OF SLAVERY, AND I MURDERED HER TO AVENGE _YOU_ , GRIMM.”

The hands clench even harder, and tears roll down his cheeks. “But he _isn’t_ you. _He isn’t you._ No, you are a _facsimile_ of him, a fledgling, a _child_ playing at godhood. You _whine_ and _fuss_ and only focus on what matters to _you_ ,  and when everyone around you finally tires of your petty squabbling, you _shriek_ and _kick_ and _throw_ _a tantrum_ in a pathetic effort to paint yourself as the victim, the martyr, the blameless god who _never_ gets involved and thus can _never_ do no wrong, simply because you _claim_ so.”

The King leans in closer, closer, their faces inches away, his voice finally dying down. “You are _not_ him. You can _barely_ call yourself a God.” And with that, his claws open.

Grimm hits the ground gasping and coughing for the air he so desperately needs, one hand touching his throat and feeling the stings of bruises and faint scratches. He makes the mistake of swallowing and coughing at the same time, tears brimming in his eyes at the soreness of his throat and the lack of oxygen - the one thing he _truly_ needed, dammit! He couldn't even consider teleporting home, couldn't tell the others to _scrap all their plans_ because obviously Brumm was right, _again,_ and he was being an idiot here thinking he could do everything at once.

He wheezes a heavy breath, forcing his hands on the ground and away from his neck. "I barely - have any idea what all that means or - w-where it comes from, but-" He winces, swallowing in the hopes to alleviate some of the pain in his throat or regain some of the vision in his eyes, but all it does is make the fire in his throat swell. He coughs again. "That's _not_ what I meant."

His shoulders shake as the coughs overtake him, and he tries to cover his mouth and ignore the pain trickling down to his chest and stomach.

The King’s hands shook, shook horribly, both at the horrid rage that was making his heart pound like that of a war drum, but also the pitiful display of Grimm curled up on the ground, coughing and spluttering for breath, able to see the bruises forming along his neck. He was almost tempted to reach out and help him stand up, but he knew an effort to be kind would just be rendered sour by what he had just done. He reaches up to touch his cheek, finding it soaked with tears, and the horribly bittersweet memory of those hands cradling his face makes his breathing stutter. He forces himself to turn away, his wings folding again, the shell of his palms creaking with how harshly his fingers clenched, tail visibly quivering as a sign of his still brewing, bubbling rage, his shoulders shaking as he forced himself to hold back. “...Please, do _enlighten_ me as to what you _mean_.”

"I _meant-_ " He coughs again, but clamps his mouth around it and clears his throat. "I meant that you haven't considered _why_ exactly I'm withholding anything from you. I'm not having - fun with this, you know. Absolute opposite, actually." He rubs his eyes, and it merely makes his vision worse, blurs of dark color swirling before him unevenly. "I've played Her games before, Pale King. You have to get - _kehk!_ Ah, gods.... You have to get everything right or you _lose._ You lose everything."

He takes a deep breath and feels for the wall, weakly pulling himself upright. "I haven't told you anything because I _don't know_ what to tell you. I do not _lie,_ Pale King. I have no clue what you speak of. I know there is something of the Void that I - _ahek_ \- that I know of, but I... It's difficult to explain, especially in a way that doesn't put anyone else in _harm's way._ "

“...Difficult to explain or not, you didn’t tell me. You provided no explanation or evidence or even a hint that you had information about the Void that I wasn’t already aware of. You didn’t tell me when you could have, difficult or harmful or no. The fact that I had to learn that you knew _anything_ from _him_ of all people, the person that you _used_ to be...” He feels the tears pour out faster, and his tail visibly lashes.

He almost hisses under his breath, leaning against the wall. "I suppose I have to be _more_ clear. Telling you anything about you are asking about - something you _clearly_ do not understand and do not know the slightest inkling about - would not only further put your kingdom at risk, but would risk the safety of all of my kin as well. I am unwilling to make a risk so - kehk - _ridiculously_ short sighted and dangerous simply to say _maybe this fragmented knowledge will help you in your endeavors._ " He takes a deeper breath. "Meanwhile, if I tell you and neither of us can make out a use of it, not only will I be immeasurably _pissed off_ at having my privacy ripped to shreds and the lives of so many others put in danger, but you would be relentlessly frustrated and _obsessed_ trying to make something out of nothing."

Something about Grimm’s tone makes his anger, slowly being quelled by newfound grief and confusion, flare up like a lit flame, and it takes all his patience to not simply turn and punch him right in the teeth. Instead, he merely growls to himself, his tail lashing again. He finally does turn to face him, and the anger is clear in his gaze.  “...So, what then? What were you thinking? Were you ever going to tell me anything? What was your oh so _perfect_ plan? What was the plan then? Let me flounder in an uphill battle with no end forever? Never tell me a single damned thing? Watch as the plague slowly consumes my kingdom? What? _What?!_ What were you planning to do?!”

Grimm says nothing, does nothing, as the King shouts at him. He merely lets his shoulder dig into the wall, eyes unfocused as they stare ahead of him, still trying to work out the stinging brightness etched in them. "I've been _trying_ to remember it more clearly. I've been talking with my kin, trying to find answers when I'm not here helping you with every other viable option. How do you expect me to tell you something I _don't understand?_ " There's a beat of silence and he exhales. "This would be much less awkward if you toned down your brightness, by the way. I can't see a damned thing."

There was a long, long pause, before the King’s light slowly dims, and he’s turned away again, shaking with a horrid conglomerate of emotions that made him want to scream to the heavens and also eviscerate the closest living thing around him. He was breathing hard, his limbs were shaking, though this was not another lapse of panic, this was anger, anger and rage and dwindling patience that was just barely holding it back.

Grimm exhales. "Why don't we sit down and just try to talk this out?"

“...Very well.” He still doesn’t move to face him, and instead merely moves to sit down back at his desk, his plate of food pushed off to the side, the jars of Void still present, though eerily silent and unmoving.

He huffs, turning toward him, vaguely, but not letting go of the wall. "I... still can't see, Pale King."

There was silence for a few moments, before the King quietly gets back up again and walks over to the squinting Grimm, grabbing him by the shoulder and steering him towards the other chair, taking a moment to stand it up again; it had been knocked over during the struggle. Grimm could tell the Pale King’s grip on his shoulder was controlled, confined, but the anger beneath was as hot as his own flames.

Grimm stumbles with him, the movement all too fast and his blurred vision spinning around him and making his headache progress right into nausea. He waits all too patiently for the chair to be propped back up, and reaches for it and sits down before the Pale King could make it to his own seat. He takes a breath, tilts his head back, and closes his eyes.

"I wasn't always like this," he starts, slow, almost uncertain. "I wasn't always... trapped in all this... timelessness and renewal business. There have always been blank spots, things that I _know_ but don't know, things that I've never seen before but feel so familiar around."

“...Any reason for those blank spots that you know of?”

He presses his lips together, taking a moment before answering. "It has something to do with my... change in appearance. And personality, apparently. I wasn't aware you had actually _met_ a previous me, though I suppose that explains why your call amused me so much. Centuries indeed...."

The King is silent for a moment, and his voice wobbles with bittersweet fondness. “Yes.. .He and I were… very close.”

"Close enough to call me 'Nightmare King' the moment you saw me? Must've been a pompous bastard, if you ask me."

“Hmm… The formality was that of habit… She didn’t exactly like it if one called him anything else… That, and, well, I wasn’t sure if your revival meant he was the same or if he was different, so I decided to play it safe. He much preferred the name… Enkay. E-N-K-A-Y.”

"Hmph. Not unheard of." He goes silent for a moment, frowning.

“...He mentioned something about a...Heart.”

His frown deepens into a scowl. "I'm not talking about that. Not now. Not with _you._ "

There was the sound of an aggravated growl, but nothing else was said.

"I'm sorry, I thought I was a _facsimile, fledgling, and child_ to you." He huffs. " _Petty squabbles_ are apparently all I'm good for."

“You accusing me of selfishness wasn’t exactly the best way to combat that, _Grimm._ ”

"I said you couldn't think outside of your own existence," he snaps. "I never called you selfish."

“That’s still quite a heavy _slight_ considering all that I’ve been doing. Considering the state you’ve seen me in.”

"It's the exact definition of the state you've been in." He leans further back in his seat, sinking slightly. "Obsessive, barely coherent, lacking in sleep, and only thinking of _your_ people without a single thought to _my_ people. Is it so difficult to consider _two_ kingdoms at once?"

His eyes narrow. “You never told me of anything involving your people. You never told me about any casualties or signs of illness or anything. I let you visit them for as long as you wished. How was I supposed to know if anything was happening to them if you never told me?”

"Nothing has happened to them, yet. But I assure you that telling you _everything_ you want to know will put them in danger, and _that_ is what I was making a comment on. You were demanding me to tell you everything without any regard to the ramifications it would bring. Would you tell me the names of your highest ranking guards? Where they live? They're routes? Would you tell me where your kingdom's water supply is? What the pipes are made of? How many guards are in front of the filtration plants? Would you tell me how your own magic works, or your own Lady's, and how, precisely, someone, one of your own citizens even, brought you a mortal blow? Hm?"

His claws clench, and he lets out another growl, but says nothing for a moment. “...I would rather not listen to such a condescending tone in your voice, Grimm. Not when we are both discussing something so serious.”

"I'm not being condescending. I'm asking _seriously_. Would you tell me those things?"

“If asked, yes. If necessary, yes. If with the knowledge that it would benefit you and what you are trying to accomplish, _yes._ Want to know how a mortal managed to strike me? He inspired to be a Knight, and his skills were so impressive, I gave him a gift of blessed blades, blades that, like the respective weapons of my own Great Knights, held small enchantments, powered by my own magic. And even in the end, it was never a mortal blow. I stayed standing, and I watched as She consumed him.”

He exhales. He says nothing for a long, long moment. "You're still thinking of me as _him,_ aren't you?"

“...What makes you say that?”

"You and I have only just recently met, yet you would tell me all about the key aspects that keep your city functioning. You don't know me, but you trust me with your entire kingdom."

“.....” He looks away, saying nothing.

"I am _not_ him, Pale King. I am not _anyone_ that resembled me in the past. _I don't know you, and you don't know me._ "

His eyes close, and he remains quiet.

Quite a few moments pass, the silence between them lengthening as the tension and unease in the room became palpable. Grimm's eyes were narrowed, staring down at his hands, carefully placed on the edge of the desk. He takes carefully measured breaths, barely noticeable aside from how his shoulders shifted with each inhale and exhale. After an interminable amount of time had passed, seconds ticking by with the palpitations of heartbeats, Grimm's eyes fell closed and he exhaled heavily. His shoulders loosened and he tilted his head to one side, almost inclining forward in the barest display of humility.

"I believe we can both say that we've been rather stressed these last few days, _although-_ " The word seems pointed, despite nothing in Grimm's demeanor changing, and the Pale King pauses with his lips barely parted. "-perhaps you more than I. What I said was in poor taste, and while I stand behind what I meant, it was obviously the incorrect wording, and I apologize for any unnecessary stress caused by it." He pauses for a moment, and his lips purse. "I still need time to think, and I believe you need at least a few moments of space to clear your mind before you ask anymore questions. Brewing tea has helped you in the past, yes? It might be a good time to break out your kit and try your hand at it again."

The King’s eyes open, listening quietly, before he nods softly. “...I apologize too. My actions were ill-chosen, spurn of stress, and… panic. I have a feeling I have been wearing myself down in a way that I had yet to perceive, and… I’m sorry.”

There was silence, and the King takes a moment to truly process the wording of Grimm’s last few words. He racked his mind with the most recent memories he still had, and what he found only caused the spark of shock and suspicion to grow. He finally turns his head to face Grimm again, his mouth open to speak, but no words coming out. Finally, they do come out, and it’s a soft whisper. “...How did you know I brewed tea?”

Grimm turns his head toward him, those large, red eyes blinking at him with a barely perceptible wince to them. "You told me, I thought. That _was_ why I mentioned it when you first... summoned me." His face goes slack and beat of silence passes before a loud, frustrated groan escapes him and he buries his face in his hands. "Guh! I don't know! I shouldn't know, but I do. I thought.... Augh. Just - just get to brewing some tea. I can't think past this blasted headache."

“Hmm...” The King slowly rises to his feet and walks over to a shelf on the other end of the room, pulling out what looks to be a tea kettle, a box filled to the brim with what look to be small bags of grounded up tea leaves, a jug of water, and what looks to be a slab of stone with a blackened rune etched into it. The King pours the water into the kettle, as well as two tea bags before dragging his finger over the rune, causing it to light up a soft red, setting the kettle on top of it.

Grimm slowly rests his hands down on the table, carefully shifting the plate of his now long cold food to the side. "That almost... feels like my magic. He... must have really trusted you."

“...Of course he did… I trusted him in return...” He nods softly, but then something in his gaze seems to grow troubled.

"Hmm." Grimm takes a small breath. "I suppose that trust is why you decided to summon me in the first place. Not that I'm refuting you; I can feel a sort of... familiarity in that sentiment. It merely makes more sense, knowing it comes from him and not from some stranger part of myself."

“...Why do you insist on referring to him as something separate from yourself? I do it because I know that you are different from him, in a sense, but… It… It doesn’t make sense to me...”

"Hmm..." His expression tightens, and he passes a hand over one side of his face and up one horn before threading his fingers together and leaning his chin on them. "It's difficult to explain without saying too much. I do need more time to think, but something tells me you aren't about to let the matter lie." He smiles ruefully, a hint of amusement quirking the corners up.

“Of course not. You’ll have to pardon my behavior, but I find myself to be quite the curious sort, even now. Some days I still feel that itch to hold a quill within my palm, not for documents, but of my own wants.” He turns his head away to monitor the tea, but keeps a close focus on his peripherals.

"Hm. Curiosity kills, so they say." He opens his eyes an inch, staring at the table in front of him. "I suppose the simplest explanation is that I am capable of renewing my body, when needed. Hence how you could witness my... former self pass, while I remain here in front of you today. A healing process, cleansing ills created by time. But each time... Hmm."

He stares idly off to the side (not that he could see much, even after all this time), some troublesome thought evidently creeping into his mind. He seems poised to talk, to say more, but that air of suspicion was returning, ever so slowly.

The King pauses, nigh freezes, and for a moment, nothing happens. Then he slowly turns his head, to face Grimm, eyes narrowing slightly. “..I did not realize such a process could heal a severed head.”

"Mm. Yes." He lapses back into silence, and it slowly becomes clear he isn't going to explain any further. One of his arms gently lowers across the table. "Each time I... heal, my memory... Hmm." He huffs. "It isn't _damaged,_ per se. More... fragmented. Scattered. It takes time to recollect it, and I..." The words come more slowly, and his one hand begins fidgeting with the knife that had come with his plate, gently tipping it on one end and rolling it to the other in gentle, fluid movements. "With what little I know... with what I recall, I am... unsure how much I... _want_ to remember. It's foolish. I know it is. But I... hm."

“...Take your time, Grimm.”

The knife trembles on its tip, held in a feather light grip between ebony claws. The words pass and Grimm's eyes close again. The knife slips from his grip and clatters onto the table. He rubs at his brow.

"As you've said on many occasions, time is not something you have a lot of."

“...Perhaps...” The King goes silent, and his claws twitch slightly. “...I’ll ask one more question, and until you feel fit to tell me more, I shall not speak a word of it.”

"Hm." He could feel a tightness in his throat at the words. He swallows it down, ignoring it to the best of his ability, and nods. "Tell me."

The King hesitates for a moment, the words on the tip of his tongue, his mind split between concern for his friend, and the urgency of his situation. He finally takes one deep breath, and speaks.

 

•••

 

Quirrel, admittedly, was in quite a vulnerable spot at the moment, and it was entirely his fault. He knew that Monomon had given him strict orders to not go towards the southern wing of the Archives, had told him to never approach doors that were locked or had bars on them, had told him many things that he had tried his best to obey. He knew Monomon was more aware of the situation, a situation that she wasn’t telling him, and he was fine with that. It wasn’t the answers that he had wanted, or at least not at the moment. But he just couldn’t bear to hear the weak crying of the sick, and no matter how far away he got, those same sounds always seemed to ricochet around in his head, as if his mind were covered in the same impenetrable walls that housed the Archives themselves.

He had been approaching the southern wing just when the earthquake, the tremors, had started. It wasn’t until his eyes slowly lifted open that he saw the damage that it had all caused. Metal had torn free of the walls, cracked glass was scattered everywhere, and he could see a few metal beams jutting free of the ceiling, as if the building had suffered broken bones. Everything still looked to be intact, otherwise, and he slowly peeled himself up from the floor, coughing slightly as the thick stench of acid began to flood his lungs. A pipe must’ve burst somewhere.

The burst pipe was going to be a problem in the long run, and, per Monomon's instructions, he knew where every shut off valve was in case of an emergency like this. But if he were to go looking for the shut off valve, he'd have to know where exactly the broken pipe was, and there was no clear indication from where he was huddled in the corner of his chosen hallway. That was another thing Monomon had taught him: corners were strong. And apparently they were stronger than some of the ceiling supports.

He vaguely wondered why supports were called supports when they couldn't exactly support anything past a few shakes, and pulled himself upright. Corners, he decided, were much more worthy of the title of _support_ than actual supports were. But that wasn't going to solve anything in this situation, was it?

"Okay, Quirrel, okay. What would Monomon do?" He ducked under a split beam, carefully navigating his way around broken glass and the fizzling remains of some old text that came along with it. "Pipes burst - so turn them off. Obvious. But where? Has to be nearby, but... not?" He huffs, frowning at the air in front of him. "That makes no sense, Quirrel."

He had seen Monomon talking herself through various experiments in the past. It always seemed to help her. She made it (and everything she did) look so easy.

He flinches ever so slightly as the acid begins to visibly drain between small cracks and divots in the floor, and he has to force himself to clench his fists in an effort to keep his cool, eyes beginning to narrow in an attempt to focus his vision, to try and pinpoint where the pipe had burst; logically, since the acid was still flowing, then that meant he would be able to see it, or more importantly, he would be able to hear it too. He peeks around a corner, swearing he hears the languid sloshing and splashing growing closer, only to blink at the sight of a large metal beam jutting free from the wall, surrounded by what looks like.... Oh gods, that looked like concrete. Chunks of it, all reduced to rubble.

"That... can't be good." He had heard some mysterious noises during all the commotion, but to think an entire _wall_ had collapsed? Monomon had taught him about how strong the metals used to make the Archives were. The concrete was a mere afterthought, an addition made at the behest of the original architects. _Just in case_ the metal failed. _Just in case_ something actually could break their seals. For all intents and purposes, no one expected to ever be able to _see_ the concrete after putting the walls in place.

Well, that wasn't exactly correct. There were maintenance tunnels between all the walls. You could see the concrete on that end, in certain places. Most had plating covering the concrete, but some sections-

"Acid." His eyes widened and he hurriedly (but carefully; safety always comes first) moved toward the rubble. "Pipe bursts _behind_ the wall, the concrete can't handle it, and the wall comes down. Duh."

As he got closer to the wreckage, the sound of gravel crunching and shifting ever so slightly beneath his feet, he heard a sound that could just barely be heard over the constant rush of the acid. A sound that made his breath catch and his blood run cold; the sound of someone breathing heavily, harshly, accompanied by a long, pained groan of anguish. He feels himself quiver, and in an instant, he recalled how close he had been to one of the many treatment rooms that housed the sick. Who knows how many of them had been caught in the crosshairs of the quake’s damage?

He finally creeps close enough to see the crackling, dying wires that new hung loosely from the body of the felled beam, coiled around it’s frame, a few of them already being devoured by the acid that was slowly, yet steadily, dripping downwards.

"Upper floor. That's..." His words slowly caught up with his mind as he slowly realized that, yes, indeed, the acid was coming from _above_ and, in following, that meant the acid was _not_ coming from a wall as he had expected. Yet a wall had fallen, had caved _into_ a hall, burning and sizzling concrete to prove acid to be at fault. His steps halted and he turned his gaze to the ceiling. The light was dim, but he could just barely make out the faint lines the acid was tracing, irregular, as if a course had already been cut for them and-

"Oh Gods," he whispered.

Above the wrecked wall and the support beam that had fallen with it, the ceiling had spiderwebbed and ballooned, the cracks dripping with collected acid.

_"Just one more reservoir to move into the lower levels, and we'll all be done!"_

He needed to find Monomon. He needed to find Monomon _now_ . But first, _first,_ he needed to look around just in case there were any injured around. He wasn’t sure if the acid had spilled into anywhere else beyond the breach, but he just needed to check. He lifted his hands to his mouth and began to call out. “Hello?! Is there anyone there?!”

The wheezing noise comes back, louder, and a small bit of the rubble shifts. After a moment, the rubble stirs a bit more, just enough for what looks to be a hand to poke free from the pebbles and powder and ash, blindly grasping, shaking, visibly weakened from whatever the hell they had undergone amongst the wreckage.

"I - I see you!" He leapt forward, cautiously glancing overhead to see how close he was getting to the broken ceiling. He makes it to the hands with less than a foot to spare and quickly starts pushing dust and small rocks aside. "Can you hear me?"

There was no response other than another pained groan, and soon the whole arm began to emerge, before it immediately latched onto Quirrel’s arm, squeezing down with a grip like steel, pulling, pulling, _pulling._

"Ah!" He yanked back, batting at the hand wrapped around his wrist to no avail. "H-hey! Please, let go of me! I'm trying to help!"

The hand didn’t listen, didn’t even pause to obey, and with another groan, another hand came bursting out of the rubble and made a mad grab for his shoulder, squeezing, pulling, _clawing_.

He yelps heart hammering into a frenzy, his free hand blindly smacking the grasping claws away and digging his feet into the rubble, tugging relentlessly on his arm. The hand around his wrist tightened, painfully. "Get off! Please, _please_ get off of me!" The next pull sends him back almost a foot, the rubble shifting and revealing the face of the bug.

Its eyes were dull, hazy, and covered in an orange sheen, its face sunken in, jaw hanging lax in an open-mouthed groan, mandibles open and outstretched. As soon as its face reaches the open air, the bug jolts, and it surges forward out of the wreckage, it’s hands now steadily clawing its way up Quirrel’s face, pulling, yanking, and a hollow, ghastly snarl rings in his mind. He feels mandibles sink deep into his upper arm, crushing the carapace, his blood spilling down his hand.

"AGH!" He has to fight the instinct to curl up, smashing his fist into its face in a blur, the pain in his knuckles barely there in comparison to the knives digging into him. Some semblance of sense comes to him and he reaches for a chunk of concrete and slams it into the bug's head.

The impact strikes true and the rock comes away bloody, the bug’s head snapping back, taking what almost looks to be a chunk of Quirrel’s shell with it, it’s body falling to the floor with another horrid moan of pain, it limbs flailing and twitching madly, fumbling against the rocks and wires, clawing at everything it could in an effort to stand.

He barely hears his own scream, barely sees himself kick the bug once and propel himself a solid few feet away, before he comes back to himself, cradling his arm close to his chest and panting harshly. He watches the bug thrash for a moment, a sickening pit opening in the bottom of his stomach, and a sudden jolt of adrenaline through his system sends him careening to his feet and down the hallway as fast as possible.

" _Monomon!_ "

It wasn’t long before he heard the weak, horrible moaning of the strange, feral creature, and the lopsided pounding of feet against the metallic floors, a loud, echoing bang, that only began to grow louder and louder as it began to run after him, it’s bloody mandibles bared and it’s glowing eyes filled with rage.

" _MONOMON!_ " He could feel tears flooding his eyes, obscuring his vision when he needed it most. He slides as he tries to turn, stumbling down another hall and barely dodging a puddle of acid. Where would she be? Further in the building, working on something? Or trying to calm the masses? What if - what if she was hurt too?

The sound of whistling wind, followed by claws hitting the side of the wall with a loud _bang_ echoed through his head, and he could feel the breath of the creature against his back, humid and hot, it’s gurgling growls causing his blood to run cold, his heart to pound. He could hear the sizzling of acid melting away at flesh, but the growling never stopped.

It was too fast. He needed to slow it down, somehow lose it amongst the halls, but he wouldn't be able to do that if it grabbed him again. He should have just left to find help in the first place. He wasn't even supposed to _be_ on this side of the Archives!

It was then that he passed by a familiar sign, labeled with symbols that were just visible enough for him to get his bearings. The acid tank, the literal Heart of the Archives, pumping the essential texts through the pipes of the building. He was close. He was remarkably close.

"Thank gods, thank gods, thank gods." The sight was enough to urge his legs to work just a little bit harder, and he flew around a corner and heard the bug ram into the wall behind him. A larger archway opened up before him, impossibly far away yet so, _so_ close. He could see the vats, the open air and narrow platforms ahead of him. He had never been allowed in the place alone; it was too dangerous for a child like him, too easy to slip and fall into an open vat of acid, and no one was willing to risk the odds.

Well, except Quirrel, right now, with a rabid bug chasing after him and practically foaming at the mouth, while his arm throbbed and bled against his side.

Right now, rules were the _last_ thing on Quirrel's mind.

Another loud groaning gurgle, another gnash of teeth, and he swears for a second he feels his head get jerked back as a claw narrowly catches the tip of his bandana. His hand jerks up to hold the fabric in place and he hears a rip as the material breaks. He stumbles sideways, the pull throwing him off balance, but quickly regains his momentum and continues running. His lungs burn. The archway looms tall overhead.

The edge grows closer, closer, closer, and then, just as he feels it’s claws come down on his shoulder, his feet push off of the last inch of the tank’s rim, and he leaps.

For a moment, a tense, longer than should be possible moment, he feels himself hovering over the center of the acid vat. The bubbles pop and hiss below him. The fumes eat away at his senses. The vague heat tingles his pinwheeling legs. And then he's rushing downward, and he probably should have leapt just a moment later, and he's definitely not going to make it, but he might, but he might not-

_Ka-thunk!_

His left foot hits the edge of the catwalk and his right continues its pinwheeling motion, slamming into the metal grating in front of him and sending him flying forwards. He claws his way across the floor, madly scrabbling at the metallic tile as if it would somehow spring to life and drag him to safety, and he feels his left knee slip over the edge, onto safety and he collapses onto his side, gasping and panting for breath, tears leaking free from his eyes. His throat tightens and he curls inward, both cursing at the lack of oxygen and thanking the gods that he was safe. He could find Monomon now. But he was going to take a quick rest first. A short one. At least to get his breathing under control.

He could hear the acid, bubbling and hissing like an angry serpent, and the ghastly, half-choked screams of the creature as it slowly melted and consumed by the vile liquid. He only hoped that the… contamination, wouldn’t cause problems for the rest of the system. He wouldn’t want the texts to be ruined because of his desperate need for survival.

After another moment spent trying to rid the screams from his ears, he pulls himself upright. His arm twinges as he moves it ever so slightly, a burning sensation creeping over the torn shell and flesh. He could still feel the blood dripping down his hand. Clutching his arm, he slowly brings himself to look back over the lip of the tank, and for sure, he sees the figure of the creature, still weakly twitching and thrashing, the acid around it beginning to turn a murky red hue. He leans back, not wanting to see the sight of melting carapace, gingerly clutching the wound with his free hand, letting out a sigh, before he manages to drag himself up to his feet.

He turns around, only to see a blur of orange, and he feels a massive weight crash into him, bringing him down onto the ground. Mandibles strike true, strike deep into the meat of his shoulder, and begin to tear. He screams, thrashing and kicking at the bug, one of his hands coming up to grab one of the mandibles and try to pull it off of him while the other shoves weakly at its chest.

It merely snarls, merely bites deeper, and it’s claws force his head down, away, to the side, all the while its bulky weight keeps his wriggling body and thrashing legs pinned, weak, helpless. His own voice rings in his head, in the air, louder and louder like a siren, and tears flood his eyes as the pain of being eaten alive begins to overwhelm him.

A shadow looms over them, casts out the glaring lights from up above, and within seconds, the feral monster is wrenched away, pulled off of his body and held aloft in the air by the head, clutched by a massive clawed hand, its face bloodied, mandibles bared as it snarled and spat in angry gibberish, its limbs flailing wildly in the air. The hand merely turns the creature towards the nearest wall, and proceeds to slam it’s head.

_Bang!_

Its carapace comes away with hair-thin cracks, still writhing, still struggling.

_Bang!_

Its mandibles audibly crunch, and its limbs stop short, now confined to stiff, erratic twitching. Quirrel swears he sees it’s eye bulging out of its socket.

_BANG!_

The head explodes into bloody, bloody pieces, staining the now crumpled, dented wall like a layer of paint, bits of gore and shell and indiscernible flesh now dripping to the floor from the attacker’s claws.

The hand opens and lets the rest of the body drop to the ground. A mask with six slits leans down to observe him.

“...Are you injured, child?”

"Hah!" He jumps back at the sudden closeness, holding back a wince as he stares at the hulking figure in front of him. "I - I...." He sniffles once, and his mind decides he simply can't take anymore, and the tears flow freely down his face. "I - _snf_ \- m-my - my arm, I - _hic._ "

For a moment, nothing happens, and then the large, hulking figure, her voice soft and deep, slowly brings her hand, claws glinting in the overhead light, to cup said arm, gingerly lifting it up just enough to look it over. “Hmmm.... You will live, child. These wounds are not severe. However, we need to stop the bleeding. Hold still.”

Her other legs (eight of them in total, he realizes) begin to slowly shuffle and twitch, her torso shaking slightly for a moment, before her legs begin to all move in some strange, coordinated motion, all the while her hands come up to carefully undo his bandana, proceeding to tie it just above the bite wound on his forearm. Quirrel winces slightly at the movement of his arm, and almost goes to stop her from taking his precious bandana, but pauses upon seeing its torn state and feeling the blood caking on his shell. He frowns at it, and can't help but feel disappointed.

"Th-that was a gift f-from Lady Monomon."

“She will make another. The important thing is to get you to safety. Why are you down here in the infected area, child?” She adjusts the knot for at least a moment or two, before her hands pull away, two of her front legs lifting up toward them, thin threads of glittering white silk strung between them like a sewing needle, her fingers quick to scoop them up, beginning to slowly, deliberately, wrap them around Quirrel’s shoulder.

"Ah, well, I-" He winces at even the lightest touches, though he can tell the pain could have been a lot worse and tries to stay as still as possible for her. "I was sneaking around." Even after everything, he manages to sound ashamed and apologetic. "I - I wanted to see what was going on, and then the earthquake happened, and-" His gaze flicks briefly over her shoulder, at what little bloodstains and gore he could make out, and shudders.

“Hmph. A truly foolish endeavor. If I had not come along, you would’ve been killed.” She pauses for a moment, and then a hand lifts up to give his forehead a subtle poke. “I suspect you won’t be making such a mistake again, yes?”

He jumps again, turning to look back at her, and stares for a moment before nodding. "N-never again." He feels his eyes start watering again and looks away, trying to swallow the lingering terror.

“Good.” She nods once, then keeps wrapping up his wound, a thick layer of the almost cotton-like silk beginning to cover up the blood and the broken shell. It wasn’t long before she finally cuts off the seemingly endless stream of silk with a flick of her front leg, snapping it like a twig, and she steps back slightly to survey her work. “Can you still stand?”

"Y-yeah, I think so." He pushes himself to his feet with his good arm, and takes a deep breath. "So that's... that's what the infection does? I...."

“...I assume Monomon has refused to warn you of the dangers. Hmph. Then she’s as foolish as she is reckless, keeping a child within this building.” Her hands cross, and she slowly turns away, her massive bulk close to nearly scraping the walls as she does so.

Quirrel frowns at her back, holding his arm close. "She's been busy. I wouldn't blame her. Plus, when the families come, there's plenty of other children around. Not now though," he adds when she turns to look at him. "It's too late. Visitation hours are over." He pauses for a moment, staring at her. "Y-you're... sorry, um, you're Herrah, right?"

“Herrah The Beast, yes. You’ve heard of me from her, yes? What has she told you of me?” She begins to walk, her legs lumbering, her gait slow, yet somehow graceful.

He follows her, easily able to keep pace with her. "Oh, er, mostly that you two are friends, and you sometimes work together on things, and you were supposed to come today around dinner time, which was... an hour ago." He tilts his head. "You must be late if you're still up here. Monomon usually holds meetings down in the lower levels of the Archives."

“I do not care if I am late or not. I come and go at my own pace. That, and this place is much more of a maze than I expected. One can’t exactly burrow tunnels to get where one needs to go when the walls are full of deadly acid.”

Quirrel’s eyes widen at the mention of _walls_ and _acid_ in the same sentence, and quickly runs up to her front legs and pats her.... knee? He'd have to ask Monomon about that. "Oh, oh! That reminds me. One of the reservoirs broke on the floor above us. It's leaking into the walls and breaking the pipes. There should be a full shutdown switch somewhere, but, um, I don't know where exactly it is aside from... somewhere in here?"

He waves around them, at the layers upon layers of metal grates and stairs reaching above and below them, all interspersed and surrounding massive vats of acid, some of which were connected to tubes which siphoned the boiling substance off into the archives.

She turns her head downwards to glance at him before she looks around at the massive complex of entrances and exits, and she’s quiet for a moment. “...I don’t think that’s going to be much help in locating it, child.”

"B-but Monomon would know where it is! And if she knew of the damage, she'd already have come in to turn it off, which means…." He swallows. "Oh no. She's in the lower levels."

Herrah is silent for a moment before she slowly nods. “Hmm… I see. Do you know where the closest entrance to the lower floor would be?”

"Well, usually the elevators are in use, but...." He moves over to the railing and peers down at the dark cross work of landings and catwalks. "The stairs in here should lead down there. This is the heart of the Archives after all. Access to every level."

“Hmm… Useful, I suppose. Come along then, we shouldn’t waste anymore time.” She starts walking once more.

He walks alongside her, almost under the arches of her legs. "I hope Lady Monomon isn't hurt. And her other friend, um... Lurien, was it? He's been here for a while, but he'd be more affected by the acid than she would be."

She lets out a sigh. “I’m not surprised that he’s here; he always had a tendency to stick close to Monomon, despite his constant squabbles with her in the past. It’s almost cute, were it not for how boring their fights are.”

"They have been fighting a lot..." He frowns again, deflating somewhat, before suddenly brightening again, previously hidden antenna perking up. "Stairs!" He darts out from under Herrah's legs and toward a larger platform. He runs up to a set of rails and rounds it, but stops at the top step and looks back to her, bouncing in place. "C'mon! We've gotta save them!"

She makes a slightly disgruntled sound, but manages to pick up the pace just enough to reach the first set of stairs, at which she stops dead for a few moments before gingerly beginning to descend, obviously fumbling with trying to keep all eight of her legs on the steps without tripping. “Be patient… I’m not used to… such things...”

"Oh, yeah. They used to be too big for me." He hops down a few steps and looks back at her. "They must be small for you, right?"

“Small, cumbersome, and useless as far as I can tell. Eight legs aren’t exactly fit for small ledges such as these.” She slowly makes her way down the staircase, often muttering a few unknown curses under her breath.

Quirrel darts down each flight, but waits for her to catch up, spending the time looking down at the network of walkways and acid tubes surrounding them.  A few, closer to the walls of the place, seemed to have broken, or at least were trickling onto the floors below them. With each flight, he sees more and more damage, and he grows increasingly worried over the state of the lower floors. His imagination supplies waves of acid in front of blocked doorways, burning through everything in its path and sweeping away anything that refused to melt. Herrah, meanwhile, stayed silent, only tilting her head here and there as she observed the damage and debris caused by the quake, and merely stepped over any leaking puddles of acid that managed to make their way onto the floor. She does eventually move to place Quirrel on her back the moment the puddles actually begin to form into shallow pools, and while the acid steams in contact with her legs, it does not seem to burn her all that much.

"Doesn't - doesn't that hurt?" Quirrel clutches tightly to the cloth cascading down her back, peering over her side as her legs dip into the acid. "I've only ever seen Monomon able to touch acid before."

“There are secrets to evading it’s heinous touch, child. Some have a natural resistance, as I have. From what the Wyrm has explained to me, my carapace is much more thick, sturdy, and the acid can’t get in as easily as it would with a weaker shell. It still hurts, but it feels more like a subtle burn than anything.”

"Oh. I see." He thinks that over for a moment, and then blinks and stares at her back. "Wait. You've _met_ the King?"

“Indeed, a long time ago as did Monomon and Lurien. We all knew each other back then, but as the Wyrm created his kingdom, I found that our paths branched in opposing directions. Have you heard of Deepnest, child?”

"Plenty of times. Monomon talks about it whenever she mentions you." He taps his mask. "I should have guessed you'd met the King before. Monomon's told me a lot about him. It always seemed like she was talking about something far away, though. It's weird."

“Far away? What do you mean?”

"Like... not distant, but..." He frowns. "Usually she sounds all happy, right? But sometimes there's a little bit of something that's _off,_ like she's kinda sad about something, but not really. I dunno. It happens when she talks about her past, I guess. I asked her about it once, and she just said it was adult stuff. I was too young to hear it or something."

She goes quiet for a moment, before she simply nods to herself, sighing. “Yes, I… believe I know why that it is. It’s something that’s troubled me ever since this sickness began.”

"Oh. What does it have to do with the bugs getting sick?"

She pauses then, seemingly catching herself, and then she shakes her head. “A child should not know such things, even one so reckless as you.”

"I'm not reckless. I'm merely... curious." He grins at his own words, but sobers quickly. "I know this isn't a normal sickness. It doesn't spread like it should. And the people who get sick, they... do they lose their minds? Is it some kind of insanity? But if that was the case, it... wouldn't be called an infection."

He frowns at the ground as they finally dismount the stairs. A few carcasses of acid vats laid on the ground in beds of glass, and a few puddles remained here and there. The room around them was circular, with archways leading off into the second lowest level of the Archives.

"I might be young, but I'm not stupid," Quirrel continues. "Illness, sickness, infection, disease - they're all different, but no one can come to terms with what it is. Even Monomon. And she knows everything."

“...No one can know everything, child. Not even her. Not even the Wyrm.”

He stays silent for a long time, and then sighs. "Yeah. I guess you're right." He leans around her shoulder and points to a door marked _Studies._ "They usually talk in a study hall. Plenty of desks to write on."

“I see.” She approaches said door and moves to turn the knob. The door slides open easily, revealing a hallway lit only by evenly spaced lumafly lanterns. A few puddles of acid pool in small clusters, slowly siphoning into the drainage system on either side of the hall, and a pipe here and there drips more fluid onto the ground. More doors line the walls, interspersed almost irregularly.

Herrah stares for a moment before letting out a groan of irritation, shaking her head. “Why couldn’t there have been just one? This place has too many damn rooms already.”

"Not enough at times. Especially when the scholars used to come by." Quirrel taps his mask. "I think they'd be further back."

“Hmmph. Fine. Let us go along then.” She begins to begrudgingly make her way down the hall, her legs splashing through the acid almost carelessly.

”Are you sure you’re going to be alright with walking through this acid?”

“At this point, it’ll just lead to another scar. I can bear it.”

 _Another,_ he noted tacitly. "Well, hopefully this won't take too long."

Herrah is quiet for a moment before she suddenly holds up a hand. “Shh. Quiet.” There was a pause, a moment of relative silence, save for the dripping of the pipes. “...Do you hear that?”

Quirrel blinks, antennae perking up. He turns his head from side to side, and frowns. "I don't hear anything."

“Listen harder...”

There was another pause, and then, slowly, creeping over the echoing din of the pipes, was a sound. A scream.

 

•••

 

"You have _got_ to be kidding me."

"Well, it's either hold onto the pipes, or climb onto the bookshelves."

"The bookshelf is melting."

"Precisely."

Lurien huffed and linked his arms around the piping lining the ceiling, Monomon pushing up his legs and back while she cycled her tentacles to keep herself afloat. A few of her tendrils had wrapped around barely recognizable metal to help her in her efforts, but it was clear she could barely support his weight. Lurien blindly felt with one of his legs for the piping behind him.

"These pipes lead acid," he groused.

"You saw me pull the lever to empty them. Now, come on and get your legs up."

“I’m _trying._ Gods, not all of us can live without a shell you know. Bending our bodies isn’t as easy.” He takes a deep breath once, twice, before he attempts to swing his legs upwards with a harsh grunt of exertion, his ankles just barely able to cross around the copper surface. “Ugh, whew. Got it.”

"Thank gods." She sighs and sinks, her tendrils falling under the acid. "Tell me when you start feeling weak. I'm gonna try the door."

“Right, right…. Gods, I hope there wasn’t too much damage done to this place. The King would be so distraught if the Archives sunk into an acidic lake. Especially with us in it.”

"Quite a lot would be lost, yes." She wades to the door and presses a button. The door makes a small grating noise, shaking for just a moment before halting an imperceptible measure above the floor. The acid level slows in its rise, almost to a standstill. "Well, that's better than nothing."

“...What happened? What was that noise?” Lurien cranes his neck in an effort to see but can’t quite make anything out from where he was clinging.

"The gears stalled. Either something's impeding them or there isn't enough power." She presses the button again, and the door does nothing. "Or both."

“So… we’re stuck?”

"It appears so." She frowns at the door. "Hello!? Is anyone out there!?"

There is no response.

"Hello!?" She hits the door with a tendril, which had about as much impact as a wet sponge. "The door is stuck and acid is leaking into the room!"

“Hit the door harder! They probably can’t hear you through the walls!”

"The ventilation shafts are right next to the door.” She points dejectedly to the left hand corner of the room. “And I'd hate to compromise the cogs any further. Although... maybe just being loud would help. You have a good set of lungs on you, right?"

“I mean, I guess?” He goes quiet for a moment, and then makes an attempt to shriek for help, only to start coughing uncontrollably, his limbs shaking as they feebly clasp around the pipe. “Augh-! Aw, fuck-!”

"Okay, never mind, forgot about the fumes a bit."  She swiftly moves away from the door, wading back to him and reaching up to support him again. "Cough it on out. Cough it on out."

“It burns… Oh my gods, it-“ He wheezes out another harsh cough, at least three more coming out in quick succession before he finally manages to gasp in a breath. “Guh...”

"Shallow breaths. Keep your face toward the ceiling. Someone has to come down here eventually. We just have to wait until then."

There was a moment of silence. Then Lurien speaks, his voice soft. “...And if no one does?”

Monomon stares at him. "Then we'll have gotten out of here on our own. Obviously."

“...That doesn’t sound very comforting, Monomon.”

"Nothing does when you're working with slim odds," she whispers.

 

•••

 

It took the King a moment to process what had happened. It took him several moments to process everything. First and foremost, there was no ground beneath his feet. Secondly, his hands were gouged deep into the side of the ledge that he found himself hanging off of. And finally, thirdly, aside from the gentle aura of light that his shell naturally exuded, he could no longer see. Everything beyond was just...darkness. He wasn't _falling._ Not anymore. And the shaking he had felt earlier had dissipated, not entirely, but to an almost dull rumble that almost tickled his claws. The darkness spread under him, around him, almost seeming to stretch up _toward_ him. It was dizzying, and he forced himself to stare back at the rocks between his claws.

Slowly, he brings his first hand to move, to slowly pull free of the holes they had gouged into its surface, before moving to a new spot, letting his claws sink in once again, making sure to keep his wings spread wide enough just in case the rock beneath crumbles. He steels himself, takes a deep breath, two, before he pulls his other hands free, and begins to slowly begin the climb upwards. “Ggh… Ghh.... Grimm? Are you alright?”

"In.... a manner of speaking, yes." Grimm almost shouts the words, but there's a slight tenseness to his voice that hadn't been there before. "Be there in a moment."

“Alright… Did… Did it work?” He attempts to reach for the lip of the ledge, but his hands come up short, and for a second, he feels himself slide down slightly. “Rrgh-!”

A heart shaped plate of white peeks over the edge, a thin hand grasping his wrist. "Pardon me for speaking out of turn, my King, but you should probably work on getting your priorities in order."

He grumbles slightly under his breath, and grips Grimm’s wrist back, using it as leverage with which to climb. “This _is_ a priority.” He feels his knees reach the lip of the ledge, and he manages to push himself onto solid ground.

Grimm follows him, gently guiding him back further onto the thin rock, holding his arms and staring over his shoulder. "Well, perhaps if you had done the reading like I suggested, you wouldn't have needed to ask."

The King lets out a heavy sigh, finally letting his wings tuck against his back, giving Grimm a soft glare. “ I told you, I didn’t have...any...” He trails off upon noticing the way the Nightmare King was staring, staring beyond his visage, and slowly brings himself to turn around. “...time...”

A great, hulking figure towered over them, almost lost in the dimness of the room if not for the subtle, languid, almost liquid motions of too dark ichor floating free from its silhouette and fizzling away into the roof of the cavern. A heaving sigh swept the room, the air billowing about and almost sending the two gods off balance again. Grimm grabs the King by the shoulders and wills his cloak to stab into the ground behind him. Pebbles from the ceiling plink down around them. The air stills. And then, all at once, eight pure white eyes flare open and decidedly narrow on the small precipice before it.

"The Shade Lord," Grimm murmurs, hands tightening on the Pale King's shoulders, "has risen."

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so just so there's no confusion:
> 
> Enkay is Grimm's direct predecessor and the version of the Nightmare King during the time of the Radiance. In case there was confusion over his pronoun usage, Enkay uses both he/him and they/them pronouns. More will come out about him soon! Until then, have a neat little drawing of the guy. Made it myself. 
> 
> https://corruptapostasy.tumblr.com/post/185689281089/so-we-made-a-reference-for-a-past-incarnation-of
> 
> And in relation to PK and Enkay's past relationship and the kiss and all: polyamory. PK is not cheating on his wife. White Lady was entirely aware of their relationship and completely for it.
> 
> If there's anymore questions, feel free to hit up the comments!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gods. Literally.
> 
> And Quirrel. Quirrel's always great.
> 
> And lore. Lots, and *lots* of lore.
> 
>  
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

The bitter stench of the acid was practically overpowering as they went deeper and deeper into the broken, leaking halls of the Archives, Herrah’s legs splashing through the growing puddles with an almost flawless ease, her head turning this way and that as she peered through the empty rooms that lined this section of the building. She couldn’t help but occasionally clench her fists as she feels the acid slowly sizzle and burn against the chitin of her shell, but holds herself back from expressing the pain, merely trekking onwards, merely focusing her efforts. The scream had come down from the end of the hall, loud and echoing, which meant that someone was either in peril or already dead. She would’ve ran her way towards the sound, but she did not wish to jostle the child upon her back, and was thusly reduced to crawling along the flooding floors, trying to keep her legs as stiff as possible so that the bubbling brew didn’t touch her underbelly. “How much damage did you say was done? A reservoir? What exactly was it meant to do?”

"Erm, well." Quirrel peers over her side, trying to look ahead and see if he could recognize the halls. "You know those big vats back in the other room? The reservoirs fill them with fresh acid and make sure any impurities are flushed out. One reservoir could fill, um, maybe... ten... fifteen vats? Something around that." He looks down at the ground, where the puddles pooled across the floor. "I'd say what we've seen so far in this hall is less than one vat. Probably less than half."

“ _Wonderful_.” She sighs heavily, her hand momentarily sliding under her mask to rub against her face. “...Monomon, you air-headed, boneless, simpleton, making your prized home full of giant lakes of deadly acid...” She twists her head around to glance at Quirrel, eyes narrowing slightly. “Are you feeling anything? Light headed at all?”

He shakes his head. "The acid's never really bothered me much. Probably because I've lived here most of my life. But you haven't." He blinks and frowns in concern. "Are you alright?"

“I’m fine. Just making sure that the fumes aren’t making you sick. Last thing I need is a wounded child passing out from breathing in toxic smog.” She turns her head back, squinting slightly, noticing that the acid’s flow beneath her feet is starting to actually move in a current rather than just pooling. “...I believe we’re on the right track.”

"Hm?" He follows her line of sight, eyes widening. "Oh my.... That's not good."

“If this tank has been damaged… is there any chance it could burn a hole in the floor?” She starts to walk a bit faster, her hands clenching into fists as her body visibly tenses.

"Oh, well... It did seem to be dripping from the ceiling... And I _was_ thinking that it was getting in between the walls, which would ruin some supports." He bites his lip. "It's possible? I mean, the floors are fairly reinforced. They have drainage systems built into them. It would be more likely the pipes burst under so much pressure."

“Hmm...Clearly these systems aren’t doing their job...” She hears another scream, closer this time, and she begins to move even faster, escalating her movements to a brisk jog. “Hold on, child, I think we’re getting close.”

Quirrel jostles slightly, and quickly grabs onto Herrah's cloak. "Careful! You could slip!"

“A foolish accusation!” She hears the screaming, so familiar, ringing up again, and now, she could also hear a distant, erratic banging. The acid was starting to flow faster, harder, and the distant sound of splashing was heard as the end of the hall became closer and closer.

"Ah, Herrah?" Quirrel quickly glances from wall to wall, a tinge of panic filling his voice.

"Yes, child?"

"This is one of the, uh, the restricted - not restricted, um, reserved sections of the building. I forgot about these. They, um, they're meant for privacy, and the doors, uh, can lock with passcodes. Do you - do you think they're...?"

“Most likely, judging by the sounds!” She suddenly skids to a stop, her eyes widening as she realizes that several feet away is a massive hole in the ceiling, beams and wirework and copper all twisted into mangled pieces, slowly being consumed by a flow of the acid splashing down to the floor. Just beyond the floor, she could see a massive door where the acid was bubbling and pooling beneath, and the banging and respective screaming were louder than ever before. Herrah’s eyes widen, and she’s clearly in shock. “...Oh my...”

"Well. I guess that answers your question." Quirrel stares with wide eyes, and then shakes himself and looks around. "There, um.... there should be.... Oh! There!" He points at a finned section of the wall, barely the size of a modest cupboard. "That's a vent. I can fit in there!"

“Are you sure, child?” She moves to stand beneath the vent anyway, stretching her legs as far upwards as she can in order to assist.

"Yes! All the rooms are connected via vents to circulate air and make sure the fumes down pile up in one place. And I’ve done this before. Crawling in the vents that is." He carefully gets to his feet and reaches for the plating, shaking it a few times and yanking once. The entire front comes off, and he stares at it a moment before tossing it aside.  "That works on all these things; don't ask me why." He reaches for the edge of the vent, then looks back at Herrah. "There should be another way to get there. It's kinda like a maze, but it's really just, like, circular. That's what confuses people."

Without another word, he jumps and pulls himself into the vent, fitting comfortably with room on either side of him.

She watches for a moment, then calls out after him. “Don’t be a fool and die in there!” Her head turns towards the door, and she braces herself for a moment or two. They didn’t have enough time for her to find another route. She charges through the waterfall of acid that was splashing down from above, gritting her teeth as she feels the stinging pain of her shell already beginning to grow. She turns to survey the door, glancing over the strange, odd devices that linger around it’s edges before moving close to the door, shouting at the top of her lungs. “Monomon! Monomon, it’s Herrah! What’s happened? What’s going on in there?!”

"Herrah!?" Monomon's voice filters through the door. "Thank goodness. The room is flooding with acid and the door is jammed! Lurien is in here, and-" There's a moment of silence. "He's almost passed out. I stuck him among the pipes. Not the ones that are leaking. Other pipes."

“Alright, so what do I have to do to get the door open? I… I don’t see a handle on it or anything!”

"These doors don't have handles." Even in a room flooding with acid, she manages to sound offended by Herrah's words. "It lifts upward. It opened just a little bit earlier. If you could force it to move, it might continue lifting. Or not, and in that case I would very much ask you to continue lifting it."

Herrah huffs audibly and despite the fact she knows Monomon can’t see her, she narrows her eyes, even as she bends down low to try and hook her fingers into the gap. “Don’t you use that tone with me! Your stupid door wouldn’t be stuck in the first place if it just had a handle!” She begins to try and pull the door upwards with all her strength, her legs spread wide in an effort to gain traction against the floor.

"Careful with the acid!"

The door jerks barely an inch upward, and the acid flows faster under the door and into the hall. At the same time, a metal clanging comes from within the room, followed by a muffled voice.

" _Quirrel!?_ What are you doing down - how - _why_ are you not in the residential areas!? _Herrah_ , did you-"

“HNNGH! He was… nearly devoured by a husk… when I found him! What in the-RRGH!- the _hells_ were you thinking having a child here in this building full of acid and husks?!” Herrah groans and grunts as she continues to try and pull the door upwards, wincing as she feels the acid lapping at the chitin of her legs, swearing she was starting to smell her own bubbling flesh.

"He wasn't supposed to be able to get near any- No, Quirrel! Don't you dare come out any further from that vent. I know he's hanging, but give me a moment to help you with him. 

“What’s-What’s happening?!” She tries again to pull, yanking harder and harder, and yet the door just won’t budge.

"He's trying to grab Lurien. Give me a moment. Quirrel!" Within the room, Monomon swims toward one corner of the room, where Quirrel was reaching over the acid filling the room to hold Lurien's hand.

"He's not awake." His brows knit together.

"I know, Quirrel, I know. He has a rather low constitution. The fumes got to him." She carefully pulls herself up. "Are you sure you can handle him?"

"Yeah, I can take him. He'll fit."

"Alright, but whatever you do, _do not_ touch his mask. Understood?"

He nods quickly. "Entirely, yes."

“Monomon! Come and help me with this thing, NOW!” She manages to hoist the door up another inch, then two, then three, and with each new inch, more and more acid begins to flow free, begins to soak her skin and steam against her shell. “RRRRRRGGH! FUCK!”

" _Language, Herrah!_ " Monomon grunts as she lifts Lurien and carefully navigates him toward Quirrel. "And I can’t help as I'm currently holding Lurien!"

“I CAN FEEL! MY SHELL! _MELTING_!” Herrah’s legs begin to struggle to maintain their grip on the slippery, tiled floor, her body shaking with fatigue and the pain of the acid, already feeling it beginning to steam and sizzle. She finally goes for one last heave, putting all of her weight into the push, and just as she does, the door lets out a weird clicking sound and fly open. She barely has time to let out a screech before a wall of acid slams into her body, enveloping her as it streams down the hall.

"Herrah? Herrah!" Monomon turns, then quickly spins back to shove Lurien's shoulders into the cramped space of the vents before the acid pulled her away. Quirrel yelps slightly, just barely pulling Lurien in before he could slouch away. Monomon swiftly slides toward the door. "Herrah, I'm coming! Quirrel, nearest vent, now, and do not leave Lurien alone. Get him fresh air _immediately_. Herrah!"

The acid writhes and rocks against the walls of the hallway with an almost rhythmic ease, and for a moment, Herrah isn’t seen at all. Then, the acid, still streaming down the hall, begins to lower, begins to lessen in quantity, before a steaming, shaking black hand breaches the surface and slams into the wall, bending the metal with how hard the fingers dig in, and Herrah’s head resurfaces, gasping and coughing horribly, the cloth covering her face and horns melted away entirely, her mask bubbling and sizzling around the edges.

"Dear _lord_ , Herrah." Monomon creeps toward her as the acid flows out of the halls. "You could have died. I-" She takes a breath. "Are you alright? No, how - how bad is it?"

“I’ll be _fine_ , Monomon. I’m just fine.” The acid slowly drains more and more, slowly moving from Herrah’s back, more down to her knees, and although the admittedly softer skin of her torso seems to be steaming quite a bit, there doesn’t seem to be any visible flesh melting going on. “But… I am _never_ setting foot in this _death trap_ again....

"Heh." Monomon grins weakly. "Horrible introduction, definitely." She glances behind her. "Quirrel should be in the vents with Lurien, or finding the nearest exit. Where did he get in the vents?"

“That one...” She lifts a hand to point toward the one that was missing it’s cover, and slowly works to stumble to her feet, legs subtly shaking. “He… He’s a slippery little grub… That’s for sure...” She affixes her with a sharp glare. “...Tell me… Why was he in this place? You know it’s the last place any child should be.”

Monomon starts to move, to slide closer to the vent, but pauses at her tone. She holds her gaze. "He was orphaned here long ago. This is the only home he's known." She slinks around her and to the vent. "Quirrel! Can you hear me?"

“Even now, when the dead fill the halls? When the infected are crawling through every nook and cranny, looking to murder the living?”

"Where should I bring him? Somewhere he doesn't know? The City, which is likewise full of infected bugs?" She frowns at her, voice lowering to keep her words from traveling into the vent. "He knows what he can do around here, and he knows the scholars. He's been surprisingly helpful, actually."

“Right, so knowledgeable as to somehow end up under the jaws of a husk and nearly be eaten alive.” She narrows her eyes, and after a second, she huffs. “Have you even told him of the husks? Of the dangers?”

"Nearly...?" Her shoulders sink. "No, I haven't told him. But he honestly was the first one to think of caffeine around here." She turns back to the vent. "Quirrel? Are you in there?"

"Getting close!" comes his faint voice.

“Why wouldn’t you tell him?! Why wouldn’t you be responsible and warn him?! He may be a child, Monomon, but do you really think the Radiance wouldn’t stoop so low as to kill children? The child of the Teacher of Hallownest no less?” She glares at her, a stern, disappointed glare that was somehow more haunting than one of wrath.

Monomon stammers for a moment, flailing her tendrils for a moment as she lowers her voice further. "How - how should I explain to an eleven year old that there's a crazy goddess with a vendetta against the entire kingdom trying to kill us all by making us go insane and murdering each other?" She returns the glare. "He's brilliant, but he's still young. This kind of thing scars people, Herrah. We know what it can do to adults; now imagine it being a child."

“You could’ve at least told him to never approach a husk! To kill them as soon as he sees one! Because of your hesitance to keep him aware, because of you so rashly deciding to keep him in the dark, he’s been bitten _twice_ , and was almost killed had it not been for me showing up!” She was shouting now, and her legs were rising up to their full height without even knowing it.

Monomon stares for a long moment, and then opens her mouth to respond. Right then, two adult legs slide out from the vent, appearing in between the two of them. The sound of Quirrel knocking on the vent next to them makes it to them.

"I'm... I'm here."

Monomon holds Herrah's gaze for half a moment, then turns to Lurien's limp body and helps slide him out. "Of - of course, child."

Herrah too remains silent, and she slowly lowers herself back down, moving over to the vent in question, reaching out her hands toward Quirrel so that he too could climb out. There was a heavy pause in the air, before Herrah let’s out a sigh. “...How has progress been, anyway?”

Lurien is softly lowered to the ground, and as Quirrel pops his head out, he frowns at Herrah and instead turns to Monomon. Without a word, Monomon reaches her tendrils up to pull the child from the vents, and puts him down in front of her. "Careful with the leftover acid on the floor."

Quirrel nods silently, still frowning, but now at the ground. One of his hands holds one of Monomon's tendrils and doesn't let go.

She looks back up at Herrah. "Lurien and I have considered a new perspective, but it would be... difficult to fulfill. Essentially, we would need either the King or the Queen's help."

Herrah slowly lowers her arms back down once she sees Quirrel not moving to reach towards her, glancing over at Monomon as she practically cradles the child in her arms for a moment before setting him down, and when she meets Monomon’s eyes again, she can see her mask twisting into a softer, almost hopeless expression. There was a pause, and Herrah feels something in her mind click. “...Wait… Isn’t the King already trying to aid in curing the plague?”

"Yes." Monomon waits a moment, then sighs lightly. "I can't... science cannot win against godly power. Not for long, at least. I can make as many caffeine related foods and medicines and look into the biology of the incidents, but... We can't hope to stop a god that way."

Quirrel squeezes the tendril in his hands. "But... the King's a god, right? That's what people say."

"Yes, my child." She grins at him, and gently pats his head. "If we could contact the King and have him send us a package of some godly material of a certain nature, Lurien and I may be able to find a way to manipulate it into some kind of medicine."

Herrah’s eyes narrow, and suspicions begin to brew in the back of her mind. “...I thought the King was already here.”

Monomon frowns at that. "No, he's been working in his Palace. Have you not heard any of the recent news?"

"Someone attacked him," Quirrel pipes up.

Herrah takes a moment to glower at Monomon, huffing in annoyance. “You can’t expect me to just know these things, Monomon! It’s not like my kingdom is receiving the daily Watcher’s Report and I can know everything that’s going on in this place!”

"I thought you were still receiving reports. Maybe not from Lurien, but from others. There's been plenty of scribes hurrying about." Monomon's frown deepens. "We'll have to make sure the messengers know to keep you up to date as well. But, yes, the King and Queen were attacked while visiting the City. It was the first time he had come out of his Palace since all this started, as far as I can recall."

Her body instantly freezes, and for a moment, all that fills the air is the acid slowly dribbling and draining down the hallways. “... _What_?”

"I'm not happy about it either. But he's been working tirelessly on finding a solution for all this."

“...You mean to tell me that he hasn’t visited you _once_?”

She looks aside. "No. He hasn't."

There was a small pause, and Herrah’s fists clench, her voice remarkably stoic but her hands visibly shaking with rage. “I am going to kill him. I swear I am going to kill him. I’m going to march right down to that stupid Palace and kill him. I don’t care how.”

"Herrah..." Monomon gives her a stern look. "Let's not do anything rash here. There's still plenty of things to do here."

Quirrel sinks back into Monomon. "Why would you want to hurt the King?"

“I-“ She stills her tongue when she sees the look the child was giving her, and makes a strange hissing noise in the back of her throat, turning away to pace back and forth across the floor. “I-I’m not _actually_ going to kill him! I-I just- How?! You two are his most trusted advisors and he just leaves you to scramble in the darkness?! There’s no way he didn’t know about the Radiance’s involvement to all of this, not when he killed that-that _monster_ in the first place! Has he even said a word to you?! Has he told you anything at all?! Or has he just been leaving you to suffer all on your own, with a _child_ in your ranks no less?!”

"He hasn't left us to suffer at all, Herrah." Monomon's words become stiffer, and Quirrel recognizes the tone from when he would break rules when he was younger. "He's sent us letters updating us on his own research, and though he hasn't seemingly made too much progress, it's clear he is _very_ worried for us. For _all_ of us! Do you expect him to just waltz up here whenever he's spent too long without seeing us? He's trying to save us, just as I am. Just as _we_ are. Experiments need constant supervision, Herrah. Next you'll be telling me it's _my_ fault for not keeping you up to date on our progress here."

“That doesn’t change the fact he’s left you fruitlessly trying to take care of the sick and dying, the infected, all the while the both of you _damn well_ know that there is no hope of a cure! Not when it comes to the infection as a whole! I’ve seen the crowds outside! The families and friends of those losing their minds to the Light! What are you going to tell them? Are you going to tell them anything at all? What will you do when Gods know how much time has passed and not even an instance of progress has been made? What then?”

"I _refuse_ to believe we can do nothing. I understand that the magnitude of the situation is grave, but it would be _suicide_ to do nothing and let the infection take everyone! And as far as I can tell, with what reports of mumbled light I have received from those who succumbed here, the infection grows the more you know about _Her_ and think about _Her_ , so, kindly, _stop mentioning Her in my house._ "

There was a moment of silence, and Herrah makes the hissing sound again in the back of her throat, though it was much louder, and her legs start to rise upward to their highest level, claws clenching and unclenching. “...I’m going down there, Monomon. Will you try and stop me?”

"...No. I won't." She frowns for a moment longer, defiant despite the new height difference, and then exhales, exhaustion creeping into her face. "But take Quirrel with you."

"Wh-what!?" He looked up at her. "But I want to stay here with-"

"Quirrel." Monomon lowers herself to his level, almost sitting on the ground to look in his eyes. "I know a lot has happened. I can only imagine how scared you are."

"I'm not-" 

"Quirrel." She gives him a look, and he seems to understand it. "You've been very brave already. But if you could be brave for a little while longer, I would greatly appreciate it. Alright?"

He stares at the ground. "...Alright."

"Think of it like this: you might be able to see the King!" She smiles at him, and Quirrel's gaze lifts. "And you could tell him about the Archives and what we've been doing as well. You've got quite the steel trap right here." She bonks his head and he laughs, trying to wave her tendril away.

Herrah blinks at this almost unexpected change, and she slowly lowers herself back down, some of her anger visibly fading away. “...You want me to take the child?”

Monomon looks up at her, some level of vulnerability creeping across her face. "Yes. I... don't have the amount of medical supplies here to properly take care of his wounds. If you could bring him to the King...."

She slowly nods in understanding. “Very well.” She looks down at Quirrel and holds out a hand for him to take. “Come along then.”

"I..." He shifts, glancing between the two of them. His gaze settles on Monomon again. "Will you be alright?"

She smiles again. "I'll be perfectly fine. 

"And L...Luri-en?" He says the name like he hadn't quite tried saying it aloud before.

"He'll be fine too." She nods. "Now, go. You'll be back before you know it."

He hesitates.

Monomon sighs. "Quirrel- Ack!" She falls back slightly as he suddenly hugs her, tight enough to constrict some of her movement. After a moment, she relaxes and gently pats his back. "Yes, I'll... I'll miss you too. You'll be back soon. Don't you worry."

Herrah remains silent for a few moments, and she slowly turns her head away, slightly, her eyes averting as she feels her stomach give a sharp, painful twist. “If you would be so kind as to get up on my back now, child...”

Monomon nods, turning him gently and helping him up onto her. "Be careful on the journey there. And remember to thank the King when you're done, alright?"

Quirrel nods, but doesn't say anything.

Herrah’s shoulders tense slightly as she nods her head toward Monomon. “I’ll try to be back as soon as I can.” She slowly starts to walk, wincing slightly from the stinging sensations of the acid, lumbering down the hallway until she was out of sight completely.

It was only then that Lurien began to stir, groaning softly, head lifting upwards. “Uuugh… Am I dead? Did I fall?”

She sighs softly. "No, you bumbling mite. Herrah and Quirrel got us out. You just missed them."

“Oh… Well, it’s nice to know that she tends to show up when shit starts getting really bad.” He coughs once, twice, a hand raising up to his mask. “Ugh… My head...”

"Try to breathe deeply. The fumes got to you." She looks him over. "Do you think you could stand?"

“Yeah, yeah, I think so...” He slowly moves to plant his feet on the ground, and though he sways a little bit, he still manages to stay standing. “Ok, ok… I’m good, I’m good...”

Monomon offers a tendril to steady him, watching him carefully. "Alright. We're going to be walking up a lot of stairs, so tell me if and when you feel like you're about to pass out again."

“Right… Please tell me you’re going to be setting up a lot more safety precautions with the… with the acid now… I don’t want to go through all of that again.” He starts walking along with Monomon, his legs shaking ever so slightly at the knees, but otherwise looking fairly steady.

"Oh, definitely. I might even remodel the entire place, if time allows. Now, let's find that control valve."

 

••••

 

"Remember what I told you, Pale King," Grimm whispers into his ear, almost pulling him back a step, away from the precipice, away from the being looming over them. "Be careful. No sudden movements. Kind words."

A low crackling thunders over them, an odd ticking that echoed from wall to wall and sent smaller debris raining down around them. Something like a pair of shoulders, covered in sharp spikes in a lazy imitation of imperial robes, roll next to the curling, almost hornlike appendages adorning the tapered head of the beast - the _god_ before them. Its head tilts back and twists. The eyes close asynchronously into thin slits. Hands appeared, gnarled, knobbed fingers stretching and wrists rotating. Pops sound off, sharper than the clicks heightening around them. Another pair of hands rise from darker depths beneath them, stretching to either side of the room, and the clicking stops. A gust of wind blows down on the two bugs standing on the stone precipice overlooking the Abyss. The shoulders sag and the head falls tilted onto one shoulder, eyes still closed.

The King watches it all with wide eyes, mouth hanging open in shock, and it takes all he can to not let his emotions bubble up, his instincts aching and reeling in preparation to scream, but for what purpose he does not know. He clenches his fists, feels his fingers shake, and takes a moment to breathe in, to let the air, stagnated and choked with dust as it was, to fill his lungs, to ground him, to remind him of his beating pulse. He must not let himself be consumed by this darkness.

He slowly, slowly steps forward, letting his shoulders slacken and his hands to drift downwards, folded, out in the open, plain to see. He gazed into those thin, empty, glowing eyes, mere slits of lights against the perpetual darkness, and brings himself into a bow, letting his voice ring out through the open Abyss. “Greetings, Lord of Void. I am the Pale King, ruler of the land known as Hallownest, the land that once belonged to the Great Light, as well as you. I beseech you to see me, to hear me and my pleas, and if you would be so generous as to grant such, then I shall do all I can to give you what you demand in return.”

The eyes slip open, one at a time, and the head rolls once more before straightening. It watches him. It observes. Its lower arms reach forward, under the edge of the precipice, and the entire hulking figure of the Shade Lord slinks closer, those bubbling bits of void filtering up into the air around them as its head and body bend down, down, _down_ to get a closer look at the two insects before him. One of its upper claws, one singular, massive talon grips the very edge of the cliff face, one knuckle easily surpassing both of them in height. One set of eyes blinks down at them, gargantuan pools of silvery white, impossibly bright against the darkness surrounding them, yet giving off no light whatsoever. Slow, resonating clicks echo around the room again.

The King can’t help but feel a horrible chill run down his spine, as if his blood was being turned into ice within his veins, and his body goes rigid, his muscles drawing taut and trembling like the strings of a harp ready to snap. He feels the air rumble around him, so sapped of heat that were it not for his own light, he’d swear that the warmth was being drained from his flesh, and the looming mass of shadow, of darkness, grows ever closer, staring down at him with a gaze that he could just barely perceive. His throat felt dry, his wings began to shake, and it took all he could to will himself to speak again, feeling a drop of sweat roll down his brow.

“...The Light, The Radiance, once lived and prospered in the lands up above, but I have slain Her, destroyed Her body and cast Her away from the living world. But despite this, She has somehow lingered, unforgotten, driven to madness and a lust for revenge and bloodshed. Even now, I’m sure you can feel Her presence in the very air.”

_Light.... Opposition.... Divergence...._

The words - _ideas_ \- filter into his mind with flickers of images that pass almost too quickly to follow. Flickers of familiar yet different wings, simultaneously leathery and feathered and skeletal. Night and dark. Some mysterious sense of separation. _Painful_ separation.

The Shade Lord's head shifts, the other side of its face coming into view, and it raises slightly, seemingly looking beyond the little glowing bug and at the darker clad one behind him. Its eyes narrow.

 _Sedition_.

It feels as if the air is suddenly evaporated from his lungs, as if within one moment he was no longer physically within his shell, the images flooding his vision, his mind, his very being with a barrage of colors, lights, sensations. Beating wings, roaring gales that reek of smoke, a horrid pain that comes in a white streak. The King gasps as the images fail, and his sight flicks back into its present state, finding himself on one knee, hands clutching his forehead, heart pounding. He no longer feels the chill that was keeping him frozen, and he slowly lifts his head to follow the massive creature’s gaze, where Grimm stands frozen to the spot. His heart skips a beat, and he quickly holds up his arms in a sign of appeasement, stumbling to his feet.

“W-Wait! Please, Lord, do not be angered by his presence! He has aided me in my plight, and in doing so, led me to you! I… I know not of what he has done to you in the past, but I assure you he means no harm now!”

Those eyes dart back to him, narrowing infinitely more, and the crackling ticks crescendo. The claw settled on the tip of the precipice curls, rending a thick trench into the the fossilized shells and rocks. Inky tendrils whip around the Void god as it leans closer in, inching toward the trembling Wyrm before it. There was enough venom in those eyes to rid the entire kingdom of all its acid. The King gets the distinct impression that acid isn't precisely what the Lord wanted to get rid of in that instant.

_Treason. Destruction. Death._

Tendrils lash around the bluff, small globs of hissing Void smattering the ground dangerously around the two gods. The fourth arm, which had remained rather dormant during the exchange, raises, nails glittering, amongst the stalactite laden roof. Air rushes, swirling about the room as the claws come down, displacing the air, a loud hiss that contests with the sizzling, alien noises that could only be coming from the Shade Lord itself.

A cloud of red wraps around the King and the sudden silhouette of Grimm's cloak, glowing with faint embers, obscures the sight of those menacing eyes and the careening nails. His arms strike up, above his head, where they hover for an all too long moment, before slamming down in front of him as if his fingers are striking some dismal chord, and in a moment the sound of screeching fills the cavern. A band of mottled white and black snaps around the Shade Lord's wrist and pulls with some cleverly hidden tether. The Void tendrils writhe and squirm away from the cliff and back into the Abyss below, and the Shade Lord rears its head back and _roars_. A hand reaches toward the precipice and another shackle wraps around it, yanking it back, others quickly snagging the other limbs, and chains wrap around the Shade Lord's body in precise movements. Grimm's shoulders ride up to his chin, but he otherwise refuses to show an ounce of exertion as he tosses his arms in some twisted version of conducting a symphony.

The King is left to watch beneath the shimmering red of Grimm’s cloak like that of a sniveling grub beneath the protection of a stone, petrified, eyes wide and heart hammering wildly, as chains continue to circle the howling leviathan, glowing with an arcane power that he dare not even conceive of, the creature’s blackened skin bubbling and sizzling and _writhing_ beneath the nigh deadly touch of it’s shackles. He winces as the ground beneath him shakes, as the loud wailing rings through his mind with a power that causes his flesh to grow numb with terror, and it takes all he can to keep from simply collapsing into a shaking heap on the spot, clinging feebly to the silken cloth of the Nightmare King’s protection.

At long last, Grimm's arms run still. He lets himself exhale shakily, lets small tremors course through to his hands, and watches as the Void Sovereign tries to break free of its chains. He watches as the chains hold. He watches as the god before him slowly, _slowly_ stops writhing in favor of growling and glaring at him from an infuriatingly safe distance away.

Grimm takes a deep breath. And then another. "I understand we have ill pasts with one another, Shade Lord. But I believe it would be best to not take that out on our dear guest. Perhaps another time we may continue this, but now is not that time."

The King feels the cloak of Grimm slowly fall away, and there he is, under the gaze of the wrathful monster that just so bitterly tried to smite the both of them then and there, not even a few moments ago. He can feel his body shaking, his wings spread wide with alarm, trembling amidst the now stone cold air, and he tries his best to copy his companion’s movements, taking deep breaths, slowly, letting his heart pound and his lungs quiver. Slowly, he brings his form back to the state it was before, his throat stinging, cracked and dry, and he finds himself desperately craving a drink, his shell itching and tingling with apprehension, his body feeling just as weak and pitiful as it did the second he crawled free from his dead maw.

“...Lord of Void, please, hear my plight, and lend me your aid.” He keeps its gaze, eyes staring right into the nearest ones he could see.

It sulks, watching them from its distant spot, and lets out a small, sharp series of clicks. It sinks slightly, the chains providing a bit of slack as it moves further away.

_Confined. Traitor. Association.... Confined..._

Grimm doesn't relax his stance, though he can feel his breathing come a slight bit easier as the chains relax. "I understand you've... been here quite some time-"

Those eyes narrow sharply.

"But!" He couldn't help but huff. "I'm not the same as I once was. Surely you can see that for yourself."

The Shade Lord sinks further, huddled together in its mass of tendrils and chains. _Change. Bluff. Disguise._

"I'm not putting on a show here." An odd sense of frustration falls over him. "I don't even know what I'm doing here, with these - with my-" He waves his hands and the bindings glow. "This!"

 _Deceit_.

"I have no memory of this. Your domain covers the unknown. You can see it for yourself." He exhales, frowning heavily. "Now. Can we talk like civilized gods here and simply chat about a few things, or do I have to send you back into the Abyss for who knows how long?"

The King slowly brings himself to take a step forwards, and after taking another breath, he speaks again, his voice a touch louder. “Please, Lord, please know that he speaks the truth. The Nightmare King that you once knew is not the same, that much I know. He is...” His eyes flicker to Grimm’s for a moment, and the words he speaks taste vile upon his tongue. “...He is a fledgling. A child. A… facsimile of what he used to be. If you cannot trust his word, then please, hear my own, and search them for their truth. I have no bitter hatred towards you, nor do you towards I. Hear my words as a King, not an accomplice.”

The Shade Lord watches them. Observes them. Its eyes peer through thin slits. Small, fragmented images without any real thoughts attached slip by them. Those strange wings, a curved beak, scales of armour. Grimm's own face, marred with lines, a smooth exoskeleton where scales once were. Differences. Subtle similarities. But more differences. The Shade Lord almost appears to relax, raising up a slight bit and leaning toward them.

_Fragment. Split from Whole._

Its eyes narrow on the Nightmare King, and it slinks ever closer, hovering where it had first risen.

 _Half_.

That gets the King to pause slightly, and for a moment, he says nothing, looking back at Grimm. Words echoed through his head, familiar, but never holding the same weight as they did, right in that moment.

_The expanse of dream in past was split, One realm now must stay apart,_

_Darkest reaches, beating red, Terror of sleep: The Nightmare's Heart._

There’s a few moments of silence before he turns back to the shackled God, stepping even closer to the edge where it’s face was hovering, and he takes a few precious seconds to mull over his words. “...I see that now. But he has nothing to do with what I ask of you. The only reason he is even here is because of the knowledge he held to summon you. This is not his confrontation. It’s mine.” He lets his wings spread, not as a sign of a threat, but simply to display, to ward the attention away from Grimm.

It seems to work as the Shade Lord slowly turns its eyes away, albeit begrudgingly, from Grimm and to the Pale King. It clicks twice, slowly.

_Wyrm. Changed. Time._

He finds himself relaxing, slowly, and he nods. “Yes...I was once a Drake. But upon the eve of my death, of my old body’s end, I found a newfound urge to live again, but through the eyes of the smaller, of the mortal kind. I shed my body of scales and foresight for one of chitin and magic, and I found myself in the presence of the Great Light. Extend your senses, Lord of Void, for I know one such as you can feel Her even now. She is the reason I have sought your aid. She is… is corrupting the people that live under my care. She’s invading their minds through their dreams, their emotions, their desires, until their mind is consumed and all that remains is Her. I seek to put this plague to an end, and the only option I have left it to turn to the Void and it’s power.”

Behind the wings, Grimm tremblingly lowers his arms, closing his eyes and taking several deep breaths. He could feel his muscles - both physical and nonphysical - throbbing at the sudden, high intensity use. He wasn't sure if he could do that again. Not for long at least.

The Shade Lord lowers itself to eye level with the Pale King, scrutinizing him with four eyes again. _Great Light...._ The name invokes images of daylight, some strange, burning mass hanging over the clouds as it baked everything below. It almost felt nostalgic. The Shade Lord's eyes shift forward, as if trying to peer around the Pale King's wings. _Nightmare... King...._ A low hum, accented with harder to hear ticks, rumbles from it, and the eyes return to the smaller bug. _Light. Dark. Dream. Nightmare. Whole. Half. Both. New. Young.... Forget._

That gets the King to pause, and his eyes narrow slightly in confusion. “...Forget? Forget what?”

 _Self_.  It stares at him for a moment, then slinks around the precipice just enough to again peer at Grimm. Its eyes narrow, but somehow softer and marginally less irritated.

Grimm frowns at the large white eyes watching him, gently kneading at one of his shoulders. "Don't act like it's a new concept, you old brute."

The Shade Lord huffs, eyes rolling, and pulls back with that odd clicking following it. _Curiosity. Contemplation._

The King watches this, feeling some relief wash over him when he sees that the beast seems to be less wrathful than before when it comes to viewing Grimm with it’s own eyes. Hopefully that will make the transaction easier. However, the response he had been given to his question only made his claws start to itch, to tingle, and the urge for a quill began to bubble upwards. It had been a long time since he encountered something new, something he was not already aware of. He clears his throat in what he hopes to be a polite manner, trying to gain the attention of the Lord, not wanting tensions to rise once more with idle bickering. “Ehem. L-Lord, what exactly do you mean by ‘self’? Are you referring to their split domains?”

The being blinks, and tilts its head. _...Ignorant?_

It was the first time anything had been cast so clearly as a question, and the tone bounces around in his mind as if the mere inquiry could pull an answer from him. It was both all too much and all too confusing at the same time. The King blinks in return, and the confusion he feels ringing through the air in that moment is practically palpable, and it takes a few seconds of silence for him to make head nor tail of the shadow’s question. “I...I am afraid I do not know what you mean, Lord. If it is something I am supposed to know of, then forgive me. My… My memories of my past self, of my time as a Wyrm, are long gone, decayed and withered within my mind.”

The Shade Lord stares for a long moment, and then huffs and closes its eyes. _Current. Gods. Many...._

The images come again, displaying a whirlwind of faces and creatures he could never have seen in his entire lifetime. Massive beings living in even larger masses of liquid. Dozens of beings flying overhead in colorful flocks. A singular eye lolling upward in the thralls of a volcano. A group of slumbering giants giving shape to an entire mountain range. Small, big, thin, stocky, bug-like, furred, scaled, gelatinous, scarred. So many, enough to hide in plain sight and never be picked from a crowd, enough to scatter across all the Wastes and never be seen again.

It was difficult to pick out specific faces, but the ones he recognized... The White Lady was first, and although she looked so, so different, all covered in branches of white and a certain coldness in her eyes, it was clearly her, still regal, still poised, still gentle in her command. There was more blue on her. More swirling accents of some rare gemstone. Those same gemstones hanging wrapped in silver from the trestles framing her face.

The Grimm he saw was the same one standing behind him, with the same rocks in the background and the same massive door locked tight in the distance. There were flickers of... other things about him. Shadows and ghosts of similar shapes. Slightly longer horns, or shorter horns, or bracelets lacing up his arms, warrior's plating over his shoulders, sharper claws and straps fitted with liquid filled glass. Dressier attire, two piece uniforms, fabric spilling across the ground and obscuring his feet. Everything was layered about him, each facet concealing another as they wove in and out of each other in a dull, crimson haze.

There were others that he was sure he recognized, beings who held nails, or dashed about with mysterious cloaks, or hid behind cascades of paper thin tresses, or gazed with a look of one eye - but they were all vague, cloudy, as if there hadn't been enough time to catch a good look at them.

The Radiance was... oddly vacant.

The next words came all too fast. _Past. God. One. Singular. The God. Creator God._

The King barely had a second to breathe before his eyes were overcome again. He looked. He saw. And what he saw transcended definition. There were no words to describe it. Time was meaningless. Death was meaningless. Life was meaningless. Nothing touched this... this... Divine Being. It knew nothing yet everything. It saw nothing yet everything. It _was_ nothing _and_ everything _and_ the odd little nook and cranny in between. It saw itself and....

 _Created_.

It was like a switch being flipped. One moment he was… nothing. Then he was something, slipping away from the cold rock beneath his feet, limp, lifeless, his breath failing him, his body frozen, unmoving. He couldn’t even feel his heartbeat. His mind was ringing, a loud, high-pitched blaring, and his vision was blurred beyond all measure, crowded with darkness, with oblivion. And then, rather roughly, he was pulled back into some semblance of life and tossed onto the rocks he had been standing on moments before. The smallest bits of light came back to him, and then thin hands were waving away black tendrils with an almost violent motion to them. Grimm's crimson eyes came into view, and those brilliant white ones hovered in the background above his horns. Grimm was saying something, or trying to say something, even as he patted the Pale King's face to try and jar some sense into him. He had never seen him so worried before. He wondered, vaguely, what all the fuss was about.

It only took a few more seconds of blankly staring at Grimm’s visage before everything clicks back into place, and the feeling is akin to breaching the surface of water, his body jolting upwards in a mad panic as his senses, his mind, floods back into his body and lights it ablaze with pain, with sensation, with _feeling_ . He gasps, drawing in one long deep breath, before he sits up and starts coughing, spluttering, flashes of red filling his vision as he clutches his chest, eyes clenching shut as he tries to focus, _focus_ , his wings spread wide and his light growing brighter and brighter as he calls upon his magic, his Soul. He feels the energy flooding his veins, slowly ebbing away at the blazing inferno of panic that had overtaken his senses, and when it finally dissipates entirely, he slumped against Grimm’s visage, panting weakly, his wings going limp as he lets his exhaustion fill him. “Hahh...Hhh....”

There was a short moment of no response, and then arms wrap around him tightly. "I - have no idea what in the blazes you just did, but thank you for doing it. Oh my gods." Grimm swallows tightly, then pulls him even closer and lets out a shaky breath.

“...W...What...?” His voice is hoarse, almost scratchy, and he finds himself trembling slightly, even as he lifts his head slightly to look Grimm in the eyes.

He pulls back, taking a breath, and searches the Pale King's face for injuries. "You fell. Again. You're lucky the Shade Lord grabbed you. Though-" He scowls and turns to the wide eyes watching them. "Honestly, what the _hell_ were you thinking!? You think everyone can just - just _take_ that kind of knowledge!?"

The Shade Lord tossed its hands up, shoulders raising sharply. _Ignorant. Now not_.

"Yeah, congrats, he knows something, _maybe_. You nearly _killed him!_ "

“P-Please...” He coughs once, a sharp one that leaves him trembling for just a moment or two before he manages to suck in a breath. “...Don’t...I..am fine...I...I’m alright.”

"You're definition of 'fine' is something akin to 'keeling over but somehow, miraculously still breathing despite how much I'm bleeding,'" Grimm snaps. "Don't tell me you're fine when you're obviously _not_. I told you this all was dangerous, and I can't-" He breathes deeply. "You have an entire kingdom to be worrying about. You being dead is not something I'm willing to let happen."

He’s silent for a moment or two, but then he shakes his head. “I’m not… injured....” He lets his eyes slide over Grimm’s shoulder to stare up into those ghastly glowing eyes, somehow understanding so much more but yet nothing at all at the same time. It was an odd feeling, and it was enough to make him smirk slightly. “Thank you… That was.... I dare not say. I don’t know… if I have words to describe such a thing...”

 _Unnecessary. First God.... Inimitable._ The Shade Lord tilts its head, sinking lower with small clicks so its head is right beside them. _Stalwart. You._

He narrows his eyes slightly in confusion, and it takes a moment for him to mull it over, before he finally moves to properly stand, wobbling for a few moments as his legs adjust. “Stalwart...You say I am a loyalist? To what I saw?”

Grimm follows him, holding his arm. "Careful or you'll-"

 _Strong. Durable._ The eyes blink at him. _Knowledge... deadly._ _Creations... weaker. Typically._

"Aren't we supposed to be talking about something else? Something, like, _not_ godly gossip that can kill a person?" Grimm huffs, frowning at both of the gods before him.

 _Facts_.

"I deal in godly gossip. I know when I'm hearing it."

The King is even more puzzled than before and he finds himself almost transfixed to hear the strange words buzzing through his mind, but Grimm’s voice is enough to get him to wake up, and he shakes himself ever so slightly in an effort to regain his thoughts, a hand drifting to his forehead, momentarily closing his eyes. “Ugh… Right… Right...” He stares back up at the Shade Lord, at those almost mesmerizing eyes, hollow and devoid of life, and he clenches his fists. “Lord of Void, please, allow me the ability to mold the darkness to my whims, long enough so that I may finally use it to cast the Light out of my domain. I require creation from the Void, not destruction, and with that creation, I may rid my people of Her tyranny.”

The Shade Lord straightens at this, watching him as he speaks. A hum comes from it. _Dark to destroy Light. Yet... Void to create..._ It tilts its head, and for a moment it looks like it's smirking. _Business. Price._

A low hiss comes from Grimm. "As I warned you, if you hope for anything to come of this, then you must accept whatever price the Shade Lord demands. There's no bargaining. Only accepting."

“I know, Grimm, I’m well aware.” The King can’t help but hiss right back, through gritted teeth, momentarily turning to glare at him before turning back to face the great beast, suddenly feeling a chill run through his flesh once more at the sight of it’s smiling visage. “...Name the price.”

The Lord hums, looking off at some point beyond them. _Save your people.... Sacrifice.... one's own..._

The words seem to send a chill through the air, and the King feels fear make his heart skip a beat. “I… I don’t understand...”

 _Save many. Sacrifice few._ The eyes come back to focus on him, narrowing slightly. _Accept. Decline._

“I.... But what do I sacrifice?! What are you commanding of me?! Please, tell me! I have to know!” His fear makes his voice grow louder, harsher, his desperation becoming clear in the way his hands shake and his breathing quickens, fear causing his body to quiver, his mind to grow frantic.

Grimm's hand holds his shoulder. "King, please-"

 _One's own. Know in time. Do nothing. Will happen.... Provided acceptance._ Its head tilts. _Accept. Decline._

He stares, stares up at those cold, glimmering eyes, searching for deceit, for mischief, trickery, anything to know that what he must do was nothing more than a false hope. But he saw nothing but patience, patience, and the knowledge of something that he could not see. His fists clench, and though his eyes burn with the threat of tears, he finds that they never come. “...I accept...”

 _Good_.

"...Alright!" Grimm snaps the fingers of his free hand, though his other tightens against the King's shoulder. "Now that we're done here-"

The Shade Lord pitches forward, its massive head looming over the precipice between the two gods and the distant door. _Both. Pay._

Grimm went still. Amazingly, instantaneously still. His heart started beating, and his breath came out in a solid wheeze. Both. He... no. _No_. His jaw refused to move.

The King’s eyes glance toward Grimm for a moment, then back to the mass of shadow, eyes narrowing with suspicion. “....What do you mean by pay?”

 _Price_. It slinks back, relaxing somewhat. _Secure... contracts._

"I'm not making a contract." Grimm waves a hand, words coming quickly and almost melding into one another. "I'm not doing - the King has his requests, but I have none. I have nothing-"

 _Summoning. Cost. Pay._ The Shade Lord leans forward menacingly.

Grimm shrinks back. "Oh. Right. Of course."

It slides back into its pond of Void, slithering around the precipice and back to its initial starting point. _Summoning... resurfacing...._ Its eyes turn to him. _Remember self. Face self.... Accept._

His shoulders ride up, and he lets out a small, somewhat relieved breath. "...Y-yeah. Sure."

It hums, satisfied, and lifts itself to its full height. _Secure.... Ichor... Binds..._

“...Ichor...” The King whispers softly to himself, before he looks down at his open palm. “...You want our blood?”

 _Agreed_.

"...Yikes, that really is old fashioned, isn't it?" Grimm shudders slightly.

The Shade Lord narrows its eyes and huffs.

“This is, from what you’ve told me, an Old God, after all. Don’t expect old Gods to follow new traditions.” With a flick of the wrist, the King has a small white blade in his free hand, pristine and deadly-looking, sharp and glinting in what little light there was.

"Yeah, but I don't carry knives around in my pockets like apparently you do." He narrows his eyes. "Actually, you just made that, didn't you?"

“Yes, I did. Why do you ask?”

"...I have questions, but I'll hold them." He sighs a bit. "I'm serious, though. I don't have a knife."

He flicks his wrist again and a second knife appears in the King’s hand, holding it out to him. “Either side of the blade works.”

"Ah. Yes." He daintily takes the knife, the feel of it foreign in his hands. "Looks... very sharp."

The Shade Lord exhales. _Pay_.

“Of course.” The King sighs and walks close to the edge of the ledge they stand on, holding his free hand, palm up, over the Abyss below, putting the blade to the center of the soft shell. Just as he begins to push the blade downwards, his head jolts up as he hears a sound.

The door to the Abyss was jolting in place, ever so slightly. Someone was knocking on it.

The Shade Lord practically growls, glaring at the door as it shook. _Payment_.

"Hey, we're working on it. Don't - don't mind the door. We're doing what you asked. Look." Grimm holds his hand over the edge and presses the knife against his palm. He takes a breath, and quickly swipes it across the shell, hissing as beads of red well up and drip down his palm. "Ah. Gods."

The King wastes no time to dig the blade into his own hand, and though the pain is sharp, burning like a flaming coal, he barely does more than wince, watching as a few trails of blood begin to drip down his arm and, consequently, fall into the Abyss below. He looks up at the Shade Lord, still keeping his knife steady in his hand. “..Is this acceptable?”

The Lord waits a moment, eyeing both of them. Banging rings from the door behind them, and those eyes continue to pin them in their place. The blood drips steadily into the Abyss. The clicking returns and the Shade Lord finally nods. _Acceptable_.

Grimm exhales. "Great."

“Good.” He waves his hand once more and the blades dissipate into thin air. He glances over at Grimm, tilting his head. “Now..How do we send him back?”

"I think it's just, uh..."

He turns to the Shade Lord, who narrows its eyes and watches them. He swallows and raises his hands. The shackles reappear around the Lord. Its surface sizzles on contact and it hisses, but holds still. Grimm lowers his hands, and the chains sink with him, pulling the great god back into its resting grounds.

A small, quiet sneer filters up through the hissing. _Remember, Traitor.... Sacrifice...._

Grimm scowls and pushes down, and the eyes of the Shade Lord fall under the pool of inky black. The surface shivers with the ensuing wakes, and lays still.

There was silence for a few moments, before the King finally lets his shoulders drop, and he lets out a shaky sigh. “Oh dear Gods...” His free hand, the one not bloodied, rises to rest over his eyes, dragging slowly down his face.

"Never again," Grimm swears. " _Never again._ I think we nearly died at least five times during that. _Gods_."

“I know, Grimm… I know...” He finally blinks, craning his neck to just...peer down into that blackened abyss, his hand still dripping with blood. “It is incredible though… How Void was once... _that_.”

A hand grabs the back of his collar and pulls him back, practically dragging him away from the precipice. "No. _No_ . You have fallen too many times today. You're staying far, _far_ away from any and all cliffs and ledges from now on."

“Ggh-! Grimm, unhand me! I’m perfectly sound! Let go! You’ll tear my robes!” His wings immediately spread and start to flap, hitting Grimm in the face.

"Pff-!" He splutters, but doesn't let go of him. "Gah, stop! We are literally steps away from falling into a lake of Void!"

“You mean _you_ are! Now let me go! Gods, I've been standing on this platform for centuries! I’m not going to fall off it now! I’m not a toddler!”

"You fell off _twice_ in the last however long we've been here! I don't care how long you've been on this thing; we're getting on solid ground right-"

The door behind them bursts open with a clattering of armour and broken handles. Grimm and the Pale King stop grappling with one another as two faces alight on them.

"Oh, well...." Grimm shifts, still holding the King's collar, and waves as the two newcomers' expressions travel between fear, concern, shock, and anger. "Hello. Welcome to the party."

There's a moment of silence.

"This is awkward."

 

•••

 

All he could do was stare. The silence in the room was thickening and he didn't know why nor how to stop it. And Grimm was never one to be comfortable in silence for long. He didn't recognize the two people before him, one quite taller than the other though not wielding anything quite as sharp as the obvious-by-the-armour knight beside her. He couldn't read their expressions, though both seemed shocked by something. 

He decides to consult the King of this land when they say nothing. "Do you... know these two?"

The King himself blinks and his eyes flick in Grimm’s direction for a moment, but before he could say a word, the taller figure steps forward, their eyes wide and slightly brimming with unknown tears. “...E...Enkay? Is that you? Is… Is that… really you?”

Grimm looks up from the King, eyes going wide. "Um..." He notices the tears and shifts where he stands. "It's... uh... complicated. I used to go by that name, yes."

“Unhand the King. Now.” The smaller one pulls out what looks to be a very sharp sword.

The King immediately moves to try and rip Grimm’s claws away from his robes, pointing a hand over at the threatening woman. “Dryya, no! Put it away! Put away the sword right now!”

She narrows her eyes and the sword’s tip re-enters it’s holster.

“I said now!”

“He hasn’t let go yet.”

"Um." Grimm glances between the two, unsure what exactly is happening but knowing for a fact that a sword being drawn was _not_ something he wanted to deal with right now. Especially not while hovering over the Abyss with the King in hand - and... yeah, that kinda makes sense with the situation. "Oh, uh, hold on a moment. Let me just-"

He is used to teleporting with flare, though much more used to traveling with company, so the sudden plume of smoke where he once stood and where he now stood behind the two newcomers is similar, if not a little more dull, than usual. He carefully lowers the King to the ground and raises his hands. "Sorry about that. He kept falling off the cliff."

The two strange women instantly move to turn around and the one with the sword,  Dryya, takes up a stance that could only be described as “imminent stabbing” before the King, recovered from being dangled, spreads his wings and affixes her with a heavy glare. “Dryya. _Now_.”

There was a slight pause before she finally huffs and fully sheathes the sword. “Yes, My King.”

“Enkay!” The tall woman, her expression still full of tears but now with a wide, _wide_ smile, suddenly swoops Grimm off of his feet, her arms wrapped around his body in a big, warm embrace, swinging him around in the process. “I can’t believe it! Y-You were dead! You died and-and now you’re back!”

"Oh - oh my-" He practically wheezes at the sudden crushing force around his limbs, squirming slightly as his arms are pinned to his sides. "I - I can see you're - ack - very excited to see me, but - _gods_ \- ribs. My - ribs."

“Oh! Oh my goodness! I’m so sorry, dear!” She seems to regain herself for a moment, gently setting Grimm back on his feet and letting go, her hands trying to dust off his cloak almost frantically. “It’s been so long! I forgot how fragile you are!”

"Augh, it's - it's fine." He takes a deep breath, resting a hand on his chest. "You have - _very_ strong arms."

The King clears his throat, and moves to take the taller woman’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Please, try to calm yourself, My Root. This… This is not what you think it is...” He sighs and gestures to Grimm. “This is not Enkay, I’m afraid. This is Grimm. He’s… essentially the same, but different. He doesn’t know who you are. He… can’t remember much of anything.”

The woman blinks at that, and her eyes flick from the King to Grimm, and she looks remarkably more… sullen. “Oh… I… I thought...” She tries to summon up a smile, but it’s weak, wobbly. “Heh… You look so much like him...”

Grimm watches the interaction, watches as this 'Root' deflates upon the sudden realization, and softly exhales as he straightens. "I... get that a lot. I'm sorry for not recalling you. It's somewhere in here, just not... in place yet." He waves vaguely at himself as if to indicate that distant 'here' he spoke of.

“Grimm, this is my wife, the White Lady.” The King then glances toward Dryya and gestures towards her. “And this is Dryya. She’s one of my Great Knights and is my Lady’s personal guard. Forgive her for her...aggressive tendencies, she can be...protective.”

She merely narrows her eyes in Grimm’s direction. “Who is this trespasser? How did he get inside the kingdom’s grounds?”

"I'm a ruler of another kingdom, though I use the term _kingdom_ rather loosely, I suppose," Grimm says before the King could interject. He tilts his head, considering something for a moment. "I'm not entirely sure how many stories make it through to these parts, but you may know me as the Nightmare King, Death's Carny, or simply the Reaper, though I'm not entirely partial to that last one. As stated, I prefer Grimm. Much easier to say. And I was summoned here to help with the little problem floating around the kingdom."

“You were what?!” The Lady blinks in surprise, and her eyes glance to the King, her voice rising, clearly upset and confused. “Why didn’t you tell me you summoned him?!”

The King blinks, and it takes a moment for him to speak, his expression looking almost nervous. “I… Um… I thought you would’ve known via our connection, dear.”

“We both know the connection doesn’t work well with him!” She gestures pointedly at Grimm’s visage. “Everything goes all muffled and abysmal! How could I have known when he was around you?!”

“....Uhhhhhh...” The King is now visibly even more nervous, and he takes a step back.

Grimm leans back a little at the hand suddenly pointing at his face, though he merely blinks at the bickering couple. "Erm... If I may, er, White Lady?"

She glances at him and retracts her hand, looking vaguely irritated. “Yes?”

"Not to be rude, but I don't think your husband is entirely at fault there." He straightens himself, letting his body relax somewhat. "I haven't exactly been enthused with the idea of being publicly known in this domain for a variety of reasons. And while he could have told you, I am somewhat glad he didn't."

She blinks at that, her brow furrowing. “What? Why?”

"Because things have been so busy in the kingdom already. I wouldn't have wanted you distracted trying to understand how I'm here when there's so much more to focus on in your own kingdom."

She’s silent for a moment, and she looks away, her expression growing more intense as she grows lost in thought, before finally sighing, and her shoulders slump. “..Yes, yes...I suppose you’re-“

“KIIIIIING!!!”

A loud, furious scream echoes down the hallway, and the King visibly stiffens, his expression turning nigh stricken. “Oh no.”

Grimm bristles, shoulders riding up at the shout. " _Who_ was that?"

A shadow looms up from the far end of the tunnel’s entrance, and before another word could be said, a large, rotund spider-like beast rounds the corner, her upper half shrouded in a dark, ragged cloak, along with an eerie white mask. There also seemed to be… something clinging to her back?

The King turns to see this, eyes wide. “H-Herrah, what is the meaning of this-“

“Your kingdom is being torn _apart_ by this plague, a plague that you very well may have _caused_ , and now I learn from Monomon herself that you _left her and Lurien to fend for themselves in the Archives?!_ ” She immediately storms up to him and grabs him by the collar of his robes, lifting him off the ground, looking close to shaking him, fury clearly in her voice.

“Ahh-! Herrah, put me down! Put me down, please, this is not the time-!”

“They haven’t heard from you in weeks! _Weeks_ ! Every day the halls of that twisted building grow more and more full with the infection, with the husks consumed by the sickness! The families of those lost gathered outside the walls, waiting for a cure that will possibly never come! Lurien is teetering on the edge, Monomon is growing desperate, and yet I find you here, down in your Palace, _ignoring_ everything! I swear if - if our relationship were anything different, I would be tearing you _apart_ right-....now...” Her gaze shifts to that of Grimm, and all her anger disappears in an instant.

“....Enkay?”

The god stands still, watching the massive beast loom over them, almost overtaking the limited space before the precipice, and he blinks shortly at the name. "Yes, but also no, and it's complicated. I go by Grimm these days." He lifts a hand and points at the King. "Would you by any chance mind putting him down? He's already fallen into the Abyss once today. I don't think he could take a second dip."

“I...." She frowns at him for a long moment, and then frowns at the King dangling in her claws, and puts him down on the ground with a small huff. "You were dead. How are you no longer dead? And why did the King, Queen, and her Guard know, but no one else?"

The Lady raises a finger in slight protest, one of her hands firmly grabbing her husband by the shoulder and dragging him to her side. “To be fair, Herrah, dear, Dryya and I only just found out as well.”  She tilts her head down to shoot a soft glare at the King. “ _He_ was the only one who knew from the beginning, considering he _summoned_ him.”

The King does not meet her gaze, eyes darting to the floor like a guilty child. “...Yes, indeed, I did. I...I knew a method of calling him, a method that Enkay had gifted to me.”

Herrah’s eyes narrow and her claws clench together for a moment before she just sighs, a hand slipping under her mask to rub at her face. “Of course you did. Of course. Stupid old bat was just head over heels for you, more lovesick than a fucking cricket."

There was a small voice that pipes up behind her. “Please, don’t swear."

In an instant, everyone's eyes snap up to find the source of the words, finding a small, round face just barely peeking out from behind Herrah's back. His eyes are wide, but not in fear, and a small flush spreads over his cheeks at all the attention given him. He hunches his shoulders, though he doesn't hide from them, and his short little antennae twitch in the ensuing silence.

Within an instant, the King blinks, his eyes growing wide with alarm. “Herrah, why do you have a child with you?!”

The spider narrows her eyes on him, affixing him with a glare. “He was in the Archives, and nearly got eaten alive by one of those infernal husks that escaped when those earthquakes caused an entire section of the floor to collapse!”

“Earthquakes? I - But...” His expression falls from alarm to growing horror. “...Oh no.”

The Lady sighs, and her arms fall away from the King’s shoulders. “...You had something to do with them, didn’t you?”

Dryya was the first to speak up next, and though her hand was on her sword, she thankfully did not look ready to stab anyone. “Perhaps it would be best to move back to the Palace. To...assess the damages.”

"Brilliant idea, dear Dryya!" Grimm straightens and starts walking toward the door. "Staying near the Abyss is not good for anyone's health, especially not a child's." He pauses next to Herrah and looks up at the child in question, extending a hand up to him. "You must be a brave one, too, to have come so far even with all this chaos. What would your name be, little one?"

"Oh, um, Quirrel." He leans over after a moment and shakes his hand. "You're very strange, mister."

Grimm chuckles at that. "Something I pride myself on." He leans in conspiratorially. "Normalcy is for the boring adults, am I right?"

Quirrel chuckles in return, some of his nervousness dying away. "I suppose so, yeah."

"Well!" He turns with a flourish and strides toward the door, stopping near it and waving in its direction for the others to follow. "Door leading back to the Palace. Who would like to go first?"

Herrah somehow looks even more exasperated behind the mask she wore, and as she turns to go back the way she came, she casts a glance at Grimm. “You _will_ be explaining some things, Enkay. No running off or any of that shit, got it?”

“Don’t curse in front of the child.” The King mumbles softly as he follows suit, walking behind Herrah, his eyes still staring down at the floor, expression remarkably more troubled than it should be.

Grimm grins despite the incorrect name, and merely nods along with the King's critique. The White Lady shortly follows the other, sighing softly, though she gives Grimm a nod as she passes. Dryya narrows her eyes on him for perhaps a moment longer than would be considered friendly, and then moves on ahead with her Queen. The last one in the room, Grimm casts a somewhat troubled look upon the Abyss, and then rounds the doors and pulls them closed. The doors were immensely large for his size, even for that of Herrah, but they moved seamlessly with his guidance. A soft click announced the locking mechanism sliding into place, and after a small pause to contemplate whether putting his own little enchantment on the door would be worth it, he turned and caught up with the others.

"I can assure you, I will not be running off any time soon," he said, both to continue the conversation where it had left off and to reannounce his presence amongst them. "Even if I wanted to, the only place I could go would be to my Troupe, which should be positioned on the Howling Cliffs."

“The Howling Cliffs? Why did they not simply come into the kingdom? You would’ve been welcome here! I honestly can’t even understand why you felt the need to hide from us in the first place!” The Lady twists her head around to cast him a sharp glare, and her tone is both accusatory and upset.

Dryya also speaks up, her voice curt, stoic. “We had sentries reporting to us from the Cliffs, and we did not see any ‘Troupe’. How can you be so sure of his words? They might be lies.”

“Enkay might be a lot of things, but he isn’t a liar. Stupid, inconsiderate, and aggravatingly _not_  dead? Yes. But to call him a liar would be like saying this child isn’t a fool for nearly getting himself killed. It just isn’t true.” Herrah pipes up, her voice sounding rough and irritated to say the least.

" _Hey_." Both Quirrel and Grimm glowered at the group, then caught each other's eyes and looked away.

Grimm coughs into his fist. "First of all, it's _Grimm_. Not Enkay. I'll explain that later. Secondly, my Troupe is incredibly used to people being hostile to our entries. Even if the crowns of a kingdom accepts us, that does not mean the first people who see us will be nice. As such, they've gotten used to being rather... surreptitious when it comes to setting up camp. And lastly-" He turns to the White Lady. "You must realize that I also need to protect my people. I would _love_ to have them all meet you, but with the infection and levels of violence here, I cannot guarantee their safety. The Howling Cliffs are close enough for my gift of protection to cover them, but it's far enough away so as to not draw attention, startle locals, or incur more casualties. Meanwhile, we require space to set up tents, which is not something one would expect to find a lot of underground. Nor would it be easy to move the equipment with how your entrances are set."

There was a moment of silence, and the Lady looks away, wiping a tear away from her face. The King sighs, his voice growing soft. “I… apologize for this, I truly do. I know it’s quite a shock to see him again. I had trouble coming to grips with it as well.” His eyes flick up to face Quirrel, and he narrows his eyes for a moment. “Herrah said you came from the Archives?”

The child nods enthusiastically. "Yeah! I've kinda been helping with things, here and there, mostly with the kids and stuff, and just a little while ago there were all these, uh, quakes? Yeah, quakes. Really bad, too. A lot of support beams fell, and some of the acid containers broke and started spilling in between the walls and stuff. And, well..." He becomes more serious, frowning at Herrah's back. "The emergency procedures for the Archives - all the doors are supposed to open. And most did! Which is good, I guess. But it also opened up the quarantined sections. I think the guards figured it all out by now, but a few of the sick people got out and... yeah."

“Oh, you poor thing. That must’ve been terrifying. Where were your parents? Did they make it out ok?” The Lady walks closer, just enough to walk beside the King, bending down slightly to see him better, her face full of worry.

"Oh, well, um..." Quirrel blinks at the Lady, shifting awkwardly. "I'm an orphan, Miss. I don't have parents."

Both Dryya and Grim heavily wince upon hearing that, and the Lady’s expression becomes almost horrified. “Oh… Oh my, I am… I’m so sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to… bring up such a topic...”

The King reaches out to hold one of her hands and gives it a squeeze, only to wince himself when he realizes that it was the wounded hand, the blood growing sticky and crusty on his arm. “Ow.”

"It's alright. I never knew them, so...." Quirrel shrugs, glancing at the King. "Are you alright, Sir?"

Dryya's gaze snaps onto the King's hand and her grip on her sword tightens. "Is that blood, My King?" Her eyes flick to Grimm for just a moment. "How were you injured?"

“Oh my Gods, it is blood!” The Lady reaches out to cup his injured hand, and she actually turns and stops walking entirely, causing Herrah to stop, lifting her head and looking back to see the commotion.

“Oh yes, I was wondering why everything vaguely smelled of blood down here. I assumed it was the child, but the fact that you’re the one bleeding, King, is quite odd indeed.”

The King sighs, but flexes the fingers of his injured hand, despite the sting. His eyes flick to Quirrel. “No need for caution, child, I am fine.” He clenches his hand into a fist, and despite the hiss through his teeth that follows, his shell begins to glow ever so slightly brighter. The blood, blackened and flaky, dried against his skin, seems to liquify once more, a crimson sludge that begins to slide not down, but _up_ his arm, traveling towards his fist, where a light was shining through his fingers. Both Quirrel and the Lady are close enough to hear the faintest sound of what could only be described as _whispers_ , and with a soft ripple in the air, quickly followed by what could only be described as a faint and distant _boom_ , the blood disappears beneath his fingers, and when he opens his palm, the wound is gone.

Grimm's head had traversed a full ninety degree tilt, and his eyes were wide and blinking owlishly. He could feel the shift in atmosphere as Soul was manipulated - there was no way it could have been anything else, no other energy gave off that kind of signature - and he could see the glow that came with it, could see the blood returning to its previous resting spot. He was _healing himself._ It wasn't something he should've been surprised by - plenty of gods can heal themselves in one way or another - but the use of _Soul_ for such a purpose.... He quickly glances around the group, leaning a little bit more into that distant fire, and sees nothing amiss with anyone's Soul. Even the barest of mosses and lichens were untouched. His eyes land back on the King. He looks fine. Normal. Tired, but normal.

Did he... take from his own reserve of Soul to... restore his body and thus... his own Soul? How did that work? What strange, circular logic had he dug up to manage such a feat? Had it been done before? Something told him the answer was a mostly solid _no_.

Quirrel looked positively fascinated, his eyes wide and his antenna shooting straight up as he looks upon such a sight. “Wooooah! What was that?! That was amazing-!” He moves to crawl forward on Herrah’s back in an attempt to get closer to the King, but the moment he puts weight on his arm, his expression flashes with pain, and he jerks back, whimpering softly. “Ah-! Ow, ow, ow.... Ohh, I shoulda stayed still…. Owwww...”

Herrah visibly stiffens, and she attempts to crane her head back further. “Are you alright, child?”

"I-I'm fine. I just, er, put weight on my, ah, arm." He holds the arm in question. What might have been considered some strange clothing choice is now quite clearly makeshift bandages. Quirrel gingerly touches the bandana on his arm, and fidgets with a few strings that had come loose along its hem.

The King catches sight of this, and immediately rests a hand on one of Herrah’s knees. “Herrah, stay still for a moment so that I may heal the child.”

“I expected nothing less, King. That is why I brought him to you in the first place.” Her legs take a moment to adjust and bend so that her torso settles upon the ground, and the King moves closer, holding out a hand for Quirrel to take.

The child shifts closer to him, putting his hand in the King's carefully, but not hesitantly. Even behind his mask, some sense of awe leaked through, as with many of Hallownest's subjects. But this was different. There was a definitive gleam in his eyes that was entirely too similar to curiosity to be mistaken with reverence. Without a word, he slides a little closer and tightens his hand around the King's.

The King squeezes down on the child’s hand, just slightly, reaching out with his other hand to keep him steady as he slowly eases him off of Herrah’s back, lowering his feet to the floor. His eyes narrow as he notices the stark threads of white wrapped around his shoulder, rendered stiff with coagulation, and he gingerly brings up a hand to begin unwrapping it, cutting through the silk with his claws. “Tell me, child, how did you gain these wounds?”

"Um." He looks aside, and hesitates for a moment, then points at the much smaller injury covered by his bandana. "This one happened first. I, er, was walking around looking for Monomon and I saw a bunch of rubble and all. There were sounds coming from it, so I... tried to help someone out, but they - a, uh, piece of the cement... hit my arm?" The statement comes off as a definitive _question,_ and Quirrel physically winces at how suspect it sounds.

The King is silent for a second, nodding, and as he peels away the final layer of the silk around his shoulder, he speaks. “And your shoulder?”

"Ah." He swallows at both the broken silence and the memory of the much more violent death, unable to look up at the King. "I - I got into the heart of the Archives, since usually Monomon is there when she's not, well, with the scholars, and there was a... a bug." He takes a breath, and it seems to stay in his lungs a moment too long. "An infected bug. It - it got me, but then H-Herrah...."

“I see...Must’ve been quite scary, yes?” He moves to gingerly lift up Quirrel’s arm, to examine the wound.

"Q-quite a bit, yeah...." He swallows again, trying with all his might to quell the small tremors making it to his fingertips. He could see the others hovering in the background: the White Lady who occasionally visited the Archives, her Knight Dryya, and the strange, definitely not from Hallownest bug (his mind told him that was wrong but he couldn't place why) with two names and glowing eyes. They were all watching with different looks on their faces, but they all seemed to be holding something back. He wasn't sure what it was. He didn't know if he wanted to know.

“...Child, it’s ok. You’re safe now. They can’t get to you here.” The King’s voice is soft, incredibly so, and he glances up from the wounds to stare him in the eye. “You’re quite the brave one, being bitten twice and still surviving. But know that they can’t get you now. They can’t hurt you now.”

Quirrel holds his gaze for all of a second before he feels his composure start to slip from his grip. His eyes dart between the King and the ground and his arm, and he feels his lip tremble behind his mask as he all but stops himself from breathing to keep himself from stuttering out his next exhale. He was being so kind, the King, using that voice, saying these things. It was almost the same as when Monomon needed to bandage the odd scrape or so when he was younger, but different and much more... real.

He didn't deserve it.

In a mere moment, tears flooded his vision and his body shook as the first sob left him. His uninjured arm was immediately rubbing the tears from his eyes, and he couldn't help but hunch his shoulders as if he could hide himself from everyone, even the King. The King was silent, merely watching as the child’s defenses wore down, as the weight of what happened finally took hold, and as his shoulders began to hunch, as shame began to blend with terror, he reached out to carefully tug the boy close. His wings opened, a meager shield to hide the child’s weeping face from the others, and merely kept his hands pressed to his back, holding him, keeping him steady. “It’s alright… It’s alright.”

Quirrel couldn't help but grab at the King's robes and press his face against the fabric. He had half the mind to _scream_ , to vent everything from his mind, but he was eleven already - _double digits_ \- and he should be better than that. He should be better than crying about something he had already told himself he was over. But apparently he wasn't.

He couldn't pin his loose tongue either. "...It's not alright. It's _not_."

“...How is it not?” The King remains motionless, unmoving, seemingly unperturbed from having a child cry into his robes.

"B-because-" Another sob overtook him, and he managed to hold back the words dying to escape for just a few moments longer. But not forever. He knew he was going to say it. He knew it had to be said. He couldn't _not_ say it. Could he?

“...Speak, child. Please. You’ll only hurt yourself if you keep it in.”

Quirrel sniffed, and managed to swallow a breath and keep from hiccuping. "It's my... it - it's my fault. It..." Tears welled up again, and he pressed his face against the cloth to fight them off.

“...The infection claimed them. They were no longer themselves. You did nothing wrong.”

"No! It-" He pulls back, and there's some anger in the moment that he was clearly not expecting because he immediately starts apologizing in a nonstop string of words until his hands finally come back up to his face and he lets out a shaky exhale. His arm throbs, but he barely feels it under the flood of emotions. "Sorry," he says again, shaky. "I - it's just... It wasn't a rock for this one-" He points at his forearm. "It was the first bug. They were trapped under all the debris, and I thought I'd help, but then they grabbed me and bit me, and I managed to get away, but they chased me all through the Archives and I had to jump over a vat of acid to get away, and they - they...." He swallows. "They couldn't stop. I just - I _led them_ there because I knew I could get away, but then they didn't stop and th-they just _fell_ and - and-"

“You did what you needed to.” The King reaches out to rest a hand on the child’s shoulder, his gaze kept calm, steady. “It would’ve killed you otherwise. It was no longer in control. It became something else the moment it became infected. You must know this.”

He shakes his head. "They're still _someone_. They had a family, and probably a job, and things they wanted to do, and everyone's working on a cure to stop the infection. They could have... they could have...."

“They could have killed you. They _would_ have killed you, if you didn’t lure them to the acid. If Herrah hadn’t shown up to save you. Don’t focus on what could have been. Focus on what would have happened.”

He swallows a hiccup, taking a longer breath and closing his eyes. The heel of his hand rubbed tears from his mask. "Did... I don't...." He struggles for a moment to say anything, and he takes several breaths in the interim. At length, he twitches the fingers of his injured arm. "It's... starting to hurt again."

The King lets out a sigh, and his wings fold up once again. “Right. Forgive me, I should have done this sooner.” He cups the child’s arm, placing a hand atop the first bite wound, and slowly, his claws begin to glow. Quirrel feels an odd tingle, and he braces himself for the sting of contact with his wound, but it doesn't come. Merely an odd, fuzzy feeling, followed by something that was neither warm nor cold dripping onto his shell. It was odd, to say the least. It wasn’t long before the King’s hands pull away from the wound, only to reveal that the bite was completely gone. His hand moves to Quirrel’s shoulder, pressing down gently, and his claws begin to glow again.

Quirrel starts twisting his arm around to look at his shell, eyes wide, but goes still as the King repeats the process on his shoulder. He blinks up at the King. "Whoa."

That gets the King to smile slightly, and he lets the light flare around his now open palm. “Fascinating, is it not? I imagine you must have questions.”

"Tons." He shifts his head a bit to better look at the glow, then stops and frowns a little. "Do you have to see your hand to do stuff? Or is it just a, like, contact thing? Do you get tired doing it? Are you tired now?"

His smile widens a little, and somehow his eyes look a little less tired now. Before he can answer, Herrah reaches out to grab Quirrel’s hand, giving him a gentle tug. “Quirrel, we need to keep moving.”

The King blinks, but then realizes that everyone else had stopped, and nods softly. “Oh, yes, of course. My apologies.” He turns forward to keep walking.

Quirrel frowned, but sighed anyways. "Fine." He turned toward Herrah, and, in the blink of an eye, leaps from the ground and onto her back in a smooth motion that was difficult to make out. It isn’t as if he had simply _jumped_ \- which by itself is a distance twice his height - since there was no noticeable downward pressure on Herrah's back, but... somehow he had gotten up there with barely a twitch by himself. He stares at some of the eyes trained on him. "What?"

"That was...." Grimm blinked owlishly. "Quite the impressive acrobatics for a bug as young as yourself."

Quirrel beamed at him. "Thanks! I've been practicing. Well, I kinda have always been able to do it, but not as well. It's just one of those things, you know?"

“Fascinating.” Dryya pipes up next to the Lady, her eyes narrowed slightly in thought. “Have you ever considered combat training?”

“He’s a child, Dryya.” The Lady reaches down to put a hand on her shoulder.

“But he could be gifted in the nail. We won’t know unless he tries to learn.”

“That’s his choice, Dryya.” The King pipes up, and his eyes flick to Quirrel. “My apologies, she can be a little...erm...blunt.”

"Oh, it's fine. I'm used to it with the schol-"

Herrah suddenly started walking, and he had to quickly grab onto her robe to stay seated on her. She huffed. "Walk and talk, everyone. We have business to attend to."

"Scholars." He sent a frown at the back of Herrah's head. "One of them tried giving me lessons with a nail once, but Monomon saw it and made him stop. I was, like..." He counts on his fingers for a moment. "Six?"

“Six?” The King narrows his eyes, slightly, and a flicker of what could only be described as recognition passes over his face. “Oh my...So _you_ were the child that Monomon had found.”

"Yeah...? As far as I know, she's only taken in one kid, and that's me, so... yes." He frowns again. "Was that not clear? I thought that was clear."

“I merely assumed you were a child that was taken in when the refugees began to fill the Archives.” He lifts a hand to his chin, humming softly. “My apologies for the confusion. I just.... Well, I only saw you when you were a baby, so to see you already so grown is a bit startling.”

"Wait, we've met before?"

"Today is just full of unexpected surprises," Grimm mutters under his breath.

“Indeed.... Monomon had come to us because she, frankly, didn’t know what to do with you. She… erm… Uh… Well...” The King looks almost uncomfortable, his words hesitant, eyes darting away and then darting back.

The Lady is the one to speak up with a sigh. “She wanted to see if we could take care of the baby. But we had to decline, for...” She pauses, as if unsure of how to phrase it. “...reasons.”

Quirrel glances between the two of them for a short moment. "I was almost adopted by you two? The ruling monarchs of Hallownest? Whoa."

The King lets out a sigh and nods. “Yes, I suppose you were.”

Herrah pipes up as well. “I would’ve taken you in myself, but I'm afraid Deepnest isn’t the place for children, especially...soft-shelled children.”

" _You_ could have been my mom!?" Somehow, this is more alarming than the idea of being royalty. "Yeah, no offense, but I think you would have killed me when I was younger. This is me when I'm tired. I haven't slept in... I don't even know how long. I was _worse_ as a kid."

"You still _are_ a kid," Herrah returns. "And no offense, but you're entirely correct on that assumption."

"Hey." He pouted. "I'm not a kid."

“That’s technically false. You have yet to reach maturity.” Dryya mutters softly under her breath.

The Lady lets out a soft chuckle. “All children protest that they aren’t children at a certain age, Dryya. They want to be taken more seriously so they frame themselves as bigger than they already are.”

"I can hear you," Quirrel grumbles.

"Pfft, you all are boring." Grimm smirks smugly, sauntering forward and walking beside the child. He turns and walks backward to address them all. "Everyone's a child somewhere in their being. You don't _lose_ that in age. You prioritize other things that make life _dull_."

“Really? Does that mean you assume me to be a child too?” The King raises a brow, looking unimpressed by such a statement.

"Of course. Out of everyone else here - aside from myself and this brilliant little bug here, of course - you're probably the closest there is to a child." He grins at him. "Who else spends all nighters keeping secrets from their closest friends and family while diving into a little science on the side and bickering with whoever tells you to stop and eat every once in a while?"

His eyes narrow in retaliation. “That is out of necessity, not a childish impulse.”

"So says a child." His lips curl further, and laughter bubbles in his words.

His glare grows further. “I am _not_ a child, Grimm.”

"Now you sound like him." He gestures at Quirrel.

"I'm not a kid."

"Embrace your childish side and never let go of it." Grimm points a finger in the air. "That way you never lose your hobbies and always have room for more."

Dryya couldn't help but turn to the King. "How, exactly, has he been helping you?"

The King lets out a heavy sigh and brings a hand up to massage his forehead. “Mostly by just pulling me away from my work.” He then pauses, and his hand drops. “...But now… Now I can finally do something. Now I can… control....” His expression fills with an unseen emotion and he finds himself ceasing to walk.

The others paused shortly after him, and Grimm's smile fades slightly. "You have means now, yes. Had I thought to tell you sooner, I would have, and I am terribly sorry for not being entirely honest with you. Apparently, I need to listen to my Heart a little more often." His eyes twinkle at the double meaning. "No time like the present, though."

“I....” The King moves a hand to cover his mouth, and he looks away, obviously trying to blink back the tears. “I...I can do something now...”

The Lady frowns over at him, looking worried. “My dear Wyrm, what do you mean?”

"Is he alright?" Quirrel asks.

"I'm... sure he'll be fine," Grimm tells him. "Just feelings. Healthy, normal feelings."

The King stumbles against the nearby wall, slides down to his knees, and starts sobbing.

 

•••

 

"-So, you see, Our King, most of the reports have been coming from the western segments of the kingdom. Luckily enough, the architecture of the City held through the tremors, so most of the damages there were less... consequential." 

Several aides sat in chairs in front of the Pale King, discussing various damages and, unwittingly, delaying the rather pressing conversation which needed having with his other guests. That wasn't to say this wasn't important information, but... the list of things which needed to be done seemingly stacked one on top of another on top of another. And the news being relayed to him was rather worrisome as well.

The tremors had passed the Mantis Village, into the Fungal Wastes, through the Queen's Station and Gardens, and laid heavily in amongst Fog Canyon and, to a lesser extent, Greenpath. Most damages came as fallen rocks from above, or cracked thruways, or fallen posts. But the few places were residents had taken refuse - the Mantis Village and  Fog Canyon, primarily - suffered more violent wrecked such as toppled houses and buildings. The Mantises had rode through the tremors with little more than mild scrapes, though they were reportedly scrambling to repair certain sanctuaries and other culturally significant areas that they refused to elaborate upon for the messengers. And Fog Canyon, with all its acid, and especially the Teacher's Archive which funneled such acid for its general use....

It could be repaired. Citizens were already being extracted and brought elsewhere for safety's sake. Some stayed behind with their sick family, or as guards, but anyone who felt the need to leave or had no definitive reason to be there were ordered to leave until further notice. Among these people were primarily scholars who had continued to study amongst the libraries despite the infection, as well as those who came merely seeking some inoculation from the disease spreading through the populace. But moving so many people at once, especially with the damages to the surrounding areas, was proving to be a difficult task. Difficult, but not impossible.

The aides shifted slightly as Grimm and the White Lady approached, the former carrying a modestly sized teapot while the latter held a tray of teacups. There had previously been an argument over who would make the tea - which Grimm had miraculously won - and the King thanked the both of them as the pottery was placed on the table between his advisors and himself. The aides themselves had no clue who the foreigner was, outside of some regent of some distant land. But there laid a sense of mischief and dark humor about them that made more than one of them consider the possibility of the tremors being somehow linked to the bug. The foreigner stayed long enough for the Queen to remind the King to drink a sizable amount of the tea, but said nothing himself. His eyes seemed to watch the King, occasionally stealing glances at the advisors, until he ultimately followed the Queen back the way they had come.

The King himself was rather quiet, asking very little questions aside from the damages as well as how many people in each affected area had been injured and what was being done to aid them, but other than that, he said almost nothing at all, his hands folded, his head tilted downwards slightly, eyes looking so much more dark, so much more intense than they used to be. The nobles had to force themselves to still their tongues, to not question the state of their great King, but their eyes kept straying to what little they could see of his throat, rumors and whispers of what others have said in the hallways passing through their minds. The strange noises heard from down below, the strange black ichor staining their ruler’s clothes, his hands, and demands to keep away no matter what.

The King finally lifted his head slightly, his gaze never once twitching or changing, as solid and featureless as stone. His voice was hoarse, close to cracking, but still somehow rang like a bell amidst the silence. “....Was anyone in the Palace injured as well?”

"A few things fell over: vases, tables, that sort of thing. But nothing outside of minor bruises for people. The structure held remarkably well through it all." This was Vit, who was somewhat more local to the palace than the others. The furthest she tended to go was to the Hive or the very mouth of Deepnest, both of which had largely - and curiously - remained untouched by the quakes.

"We were talking amongst ourselves before you came, and we think it might have been something to do with the architecture." Lin was largely focused on issues within the City. She was studious, and had a tendency to return late with her messages. But it was mostly for her tendency to talk with the locals on her travels. A lot of news spread from word of mouth on the trails around the City, even these days. "The amount and types of metals used here are similar to those in the City of Tears. Most elsewhere isn't made of such things."

"It was more than just the metals. Otherwise the Archives wouldn't have been hit so hard." Noc specialized in the Fungal Wastes and Fog Canyon, as well as Greenpath and the Queen's Garden. "Both the City and Palace are much more open. Didn't you hear the walls ringing? These places are practically bells with how they're made."

 

"I think you all are forgetting the conversation." Cil sent the others a soft glare. Senior in the group, they collected information on the more out of the way areas: the Resting Grounds, Crystal Peak, the Mantis Village, and so on. They turned back to the King. "The worst we had were bumped heads. Everyone in the Palace is fine. Merely... shaken. Pardon the pun." 

The King doesn’t say anything for a moment, his eyes flickering back and forth between them all for a moment, before he lets himself take a deep breath and let out a sigh. To think that his advisors were making sure the people were saved from the wreckages and were being cared for while he was confronting the Shade Lord. It was a bitter pill to swallow, knowing he had accidentally damaged his kingdom for the sake of relieving it of the plague, but it was a necessary evil, and he had to accept it.

He finally moves to pour a cup of the tea, watching as the steam flickers through the air like a snuffed candle, and pushes it over to the first advisor, Vit. “That’s a relief to hear. You all must be rather tired after such a calamity.” He pours another cup, then another, then another, placing them in front of his nobility, before finally pouring a cup for himself. “Drink. It’s the least I can offer for you, seeing how you did all you could to get the people to safety.”

"Are you sure, sir?" Lin glances between the cup and the King for a moment, gingerly wrapping her hands around it and taking in its warmth. "This is your own tea, isn't it?"

Noc elbows her gently. "He's offering it. It would be rude to refuse it. And he does this at all the meetings; stop acting so surprised."

She flushes slightly. "I just - thank you, My King."

He smiles softly before he moves to take a sip of his own tea, already feeling himself beginning to calm from the exhaustion that the day had been building up within his chest. Gods, it’s only been a day. The day wasn’t even over yet. He knew that he had been put to sleep earlier, but somehow, it felt as if he had never slept at all. He lowers the cup, letting his hand drift up to his eyes to rub them, feeling them idly stinging, only to remember himself and let his hand slide back down. “...Are my Knights still in the Palace?”

"Yes, they've been waiting for your return." Cil nods, and takes a sip of tea. "We told them some of the basics already, since we couldn't find you. They tried to stop Herrah when she came, but she said it was a matter of importance, especially with the child she brought."

“Hm, I see.” He nods for a moment or two, his head lowered slightly in thought before raising it. “Lin, could you please go and bring them to me? I believe they could aid in dealing with repairs.”

"Yes, My King!" She springs up from her seat and hurries off.

"Don't trip!" Noc calls after her. He rolls his eyes, though there's humor in them. "She'll never fall asleep at this rate. I don't know how she has so much energy."

“Not falling asleep in these times are absolute blessings.” Vit sips at her tea, though it’s less of a sip and more of an outright chugging.

"Let's just hope the caffeine preserves last a while." Noc sips at his cup. "I hear tea is better for coffee. Helps avoid crashes."

"Soon enough, we won't have to worry about that." Cil blew on their cup. "All of this will be over before you know it."

The King is mostly silent, listening to their idle chat, and finds himself nodding softly. “I believe I’ve been making progress. Vital progress.”

They all perk up at that. "You have? What kind? How much?"

His breath hitches for a moment, and his claws tighten around his cup. “..I...I..It should be enough to wipe out the plague...entirely.”

Their eyes widen at that, and for a moment none of them speak. Grins fill their faces and tears fill their eyes. "It's almost over?"

He practically feels his stomach drop, growing into a tight, constricting knot of absolute misery, and it takes all he has left to prevent himself from shattering the cup in his hands.

_They’re all counting on me. All of them. They’re doomed without me. They won’t know what to do. They need me._

“...I....I still need to....” His tongue feels like rubber and his words taste like ash. He couldn’t lie to them, but he had to. He _had to_ . They couldn’t know that only _now_ was he actually making progress. They couldn’t know that all those days spent in his basement were nothing more than him grasping at straws, struggling, blind in the dark while families and loved ones were consumed and turned vile by the blight. He couldn’t tell them. He couldn’t. They need him. They need him to have the answers.

“...I still need to find a way to… properly incorporate it.”

Cil nods, even as some of the excitement seems to drain from them all. "Progress is progress. Better to go slowly yet surely than quickly and foolishly."

“I-Indeed, my King. Please, take… take as much time as you need.” Vit wipes the tears away from her eyes, and the King feels his heart clench.

Lin reenters the room with the Knight following shortly behind her, and reclaims her seat. The first among them is Ze'mer, who sweeps forward with a soft cry.

"Moh King!" She brings her hands together, as if doing such a thing was all that keeps her from hugging him herself. "It is good to see you well. We were just receiving word that refuge is being made above ground for those in and around the Archives."

Ogrim himself, seems to be less hearty than usual, and he brings an arm to thump against his chest, his expression rather serious. “At your word, we shall set out to bring our aid in any way we can.”

Hegemol remains silent, stoic, the end of his mace planted firmly on the ground.

The King feels some of the horrible ache in his chest recede as soon as he sees the familiar faces, and takes a moment to sip at his tea before responding, trying his damndest to shove his emotions down long enough so that he could concentrate. “Excellent...Ze’mer, Isma, I want you to travel to the most damaged areas in the Kingdom and aid the doctors in dealing with the wounded. I also ask that you visit the Mantis tribe and tend to their injured as well.”

"Right away, my King." Isma dips her head toward him and the two hurry off.

Ogrim shifts where he stands. "And the rest of us, my King?"

He pauses for a moment, before he stands from his seat and walks over to a nearby door, pushing it open. “Quirrel, child, could you please come out here?”

There's a small noise from beyond the door, and the small pillbug comes out. "Yes, sir?"

The King then turns to Ogrim, a hand on Quirrel’s shoulder. “Ogrim, I’d like you and Hegemol to watch over Quirrel for me while I deal with other pressing matters. He’s Monomon’s child, but he was taken here by Herrah, and I can’t have him wandering around the Palace unattended.”

Ogrim blinks, visibly taken aback, while Hegemol merely tilts his head. There was a slight pause before Ogrim’s familiar grin grows right back onto his face, and he practically bounces forward to offer his hand to the child to shake. “Well, hello there, little one! It is an honor to meet the apprentice of the valorous Teacher!”

Quirrel chuckles a little, taking his hand and laughing more at the vigorous shake. "I don't know about being an apprentice, but it's nice meeting you too! I've heard a lot about the Great Knights."

“Ohoh! You have, have you? Well, tell me how much you’ve heard! What better way to separate the myth from the truth than with the source?” Ogrim pounds his arm against his chest plate once more, and begins walking towards the entrance.

Hegemol actually lets out a chuckle, beginning to walk out as well. “I bet they’ve heard a lot about you, Ogrim. Especially, well, _that_.”

“I keep telling them, it is a stench of _honor_!” Ogrim huffs, looking mildly irritated as he disappears behind the door.

Cil watches the Knights for a moment, then turns back to their cup. "Is there anything else you need from us, My King? I believe we've told you everything we've found."

“No, no, that’s all I need. Thank you, all of you. You are dismissed.” He nods at them, taking a seat once more.

They nod and quickly finish their tea before heading out as a group, murmuring to each other in small whispers. The King waits until the door shuts behind them, before he lets out a sigh, his face becoming buried in his arms, visage visibly dropping, the tea having long gone cold in his stomach, leaving an empty, almost nauseous feeling within his abdomen. He mumbles against his sleeves, groaning softly. “Why me? Why did it have to be me? Why did it have to be my people? They don’t deserve any of this.”

Another door suddenly opens and Grimm hurries in. He's shaking his hands frantically in front of him, and is closely trailed by the White Lady, Dryya, and Herrah. "Thank _gods_ they're gone. Everyone keeps asking me things."

The King doesn’t look up from his crumpled position on the table, merely letting out another soft groan, no words within them. “Uuuuuugh...”

Herrah slowly leans over to poke him him the shoulder, then starts poking him harder when he doesn’t respond. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare start having one of your weird little episodes again. Sit up, like a _respectable_ King, and talk to us. We’re done being shoved away and not told anything.”

The Lady offers a much softer pat to the other shoulder, frowning in slight worry. “While I wouldn’t phrase it that way… I’m afraid we do need answers.”

“I honestly have no inkling of what is going on with this… outsider, so an explanation would do some good, My King.”

The King remains motionless for a moment, before finally lifting his head up to stare at Grimm, and his eyes look honestly more exhausted and dead than before. “...I can’t exactly answer myself. I don’t know the full thing. He hasn’t told me.”

All three heads snap towards him, and Dryya reaches for her sword.

Grimm raises his hands as if the sword were already at his throat. "Hey, I'm about to explain in a moment. I haven't yet because the King needs to know too, alright? It's easier to explain once."

“Please do explain then, Enkay, because once you’re done explaining, you will end up hanging upside down in my web.” Herrah was giving him a harsh glare behind her mask, and the muffled _clacking_ made it very clear that her mandibles were starting to chitter.

"I _live_ upside down half my life. You're gonna have to try better than that." He frowns, but sighs and takes a seat. "What _precisely_ should I start with? There's a lot to cover."

“How you came back from the damned dead for one. I know you have plenty of tricks up your sleeves but I’m sure growing your head back after having it chopped off isn’t one of them.” Herrah crosses her arms, and her legs are quick to settle down once it’s clear she’ll actually get an answer.

He winces and rubs his face at the wording, then takes a deep breath and lowers his hands. "Okay. Okay. The most simplest way of explaining it is that there is a Ritual which must be performed in order to revitalize my body. Well, not _my_ body. It... How should I put this? When a new body is made, fully, the old body is no more. But when the body is renewed, so is everything else: my mind, my spirit, my desires, everything. Are you following me?"

There was silence, and the life seems to slowly pour back into the King’s eyes as he lifts his head upwards. “...So this process requires you making copies of your own body?”

“How is that even possible? I’ve never even heard of a God doing such a thing.” The Lady looks shocked, to say the least.

Dryya had stopped drawing her sword and was now silent.

"They're not copies, and as far as I know, I'm the only one who really does... This." He waves at himself. "The previous incarnation is destroyed, physically, and reduced to nightmare fuel - at least, that's what I'd consider it - which is then used to spark the flame for the next incarnation, who takes on different appearances, personalities, titles, all of it. Everything is different. But the past selves don't simply... die. There's more to it than that. More than what is merely physical."

All four of them were silent for a moment, before the King speaks up once more. “...Do you mean the Heart?”

He flexes a hand uncomfortably and nods after a moment. "Yes. The Heart keeps all the memories, as well as all the past selves. It's also... Hrm..." He trills his fingers. "My powers are stored there, in a sense. The Heart holds everything that makes me the Nightmare King while also keeping separate who I am as Grimm. If that makes any sense. I have access to my powers, but in a limited sense. Imagine… a locked door, with the magic trickling from the crack underneath."

It took a couple seconds for the realization to sink in. The King’s eyes widened, and he looks positively shocked. “...It was you.”

Grimm blinks and raises a brow at him. "It was me? Yes and no, if you're talking about Enkay still. We're different people, but merely embodiments for the-"

“No, no, I’m not talking about that.” He looks up towards his Lady. “My dear, when we went to see the Seer in the Resting Grounds, do you remember that story she told us?”

Her eyes widen, and she turns her head back towards Grimm. “You think that’s him? The God that split themselves into two? The buffer?”

“He _has_ to be. It’s the only way it makes sense.”

Grimm glances quickly between the two of them, and even darts his eyes to Dryya as she tenses but remains silent. "I believe I may be at a loss here."

The King pauses, before looking back at Grimm. “I… When you had left to visit your Troupe, I went about paying respects to the dead in the Resting Grounds. There I revisited one of my old friends, The Seer. She… She told me of a legend of a God, one who had grown too powerful and thusly found a way to… to buffer the line between their power and their physical body. From how she described it, the God essentially split themselves down the middle. I had my doubts, considering it was a story told in Her time, but… But now I realize it may have been talking about you all along.”

He frowns and looks aside, not meeting any of their gazes. "That... sounds about right, from what I know. There is the Heart-" He raises one hand in indication. "-and then the... Body, let's call it." He raises his other hand. "We both need each other to live, in a manner of speaking. But the Heart pumps its power into the Body. I have my own reservoir, but, ultimately, it comes from the Heart. There are... _methods_ of using more power more readily which requires a...." He frowns and brings his hands over each other, not touching, but one shadowing over the other. "An equilibrium. Balance. Two becoming one. It is difficult to maintain, but in those moments I am - _we_ are truly the Nightmare King." He puts his hands down and taps the table. "I don't have all my memories, but it would make sense if we did such a thing in order to cap ourselves. Even like this I can be more destructive than desired."

Herrah hums for a moment beneath her mask, acting oddly quiet. “Why don’t you have all your memories, then? How come you have your own identity despite being the same person? How can past selves like Enkay exist to begin with if you all came from the same body?”

"Because the mind is much more complicated than a mere body." He leans back in his seat. "The Ritual which revives me acts as a sort of... reset. The Heart retains all the past lives, including the memories and personalities and all that psychological business. But upon the creation of a new body, a new mind is formed. Allowing all the memories to flood an infant mind would not only be damaging mentally, but runs the risk of, well... It's a lot to process at once. We'd run the risk of _breaking_ , for lack of a better term." He exhales and leans his head on a hand, glancing over them all. "Recovering the memories comes as a process each incarnation carries out themselves. Some memories are never recovered for hundreds of iterations. Some are there for seemingly every generation. Some of the process is linear, while other parts of it are... very much not."

“...So why haven’t you recovered some memories yet?” The Lady frowns softly, almost looking upset. “You didn’t recognize us at all. That means you don’t have Enkay’s memories.”

Grimm shifts and squirms under her gaze. "It's - I, er, haven't started the process yet. Almost entirely."

The King is silent for a moment before he speaks. “...Why not?”

His fingers twitch as if yearning to play some distant instrument. "My... first memories are not exactly... pleasant." He takes a breath and folds his hands in his lap, straightening and letting the troubled look that had been creeping over his face to fall away. "The way Enkay died was unforeseen. Usually the Troupe would have been able to prepare for it, but, as things happened, they were not. It's..." His expression falters for a moment. "I..." Grimm takes a breath, eyes closing. "To put it bluntly, I'm lucky to be alive. The Ritual should have been ended with his death, since the Ritual itself was not completed, but for whatever reason, thankfully, it didn't."

There was silence, the King closing his eyes in contemplation, The Lady looking away, and Herrah remaining quiet.

"In... all honesty..." he says slowly, "I could have remembered, hypothetically, everything by now. Most incarnations my age recall their pasts by now, or at least are well on their way to remembering. But I... find it difficult attending to the first memories, which in theory open the memories of the others thereafter."

The King opens his eyes, and is the first one to speak. “...If you need to take a moment to compose yourself, Grimm...”

"I'm - fine. Thank you, though."

Herrah finally shifts her gaze to the King, her head turning almost completely around. “..So you had a way to summon En...Grimm here, because you thought he could be a help against the infection?”

“I-Indeed, I did. Admittedly, progress was… next to none, until… Well… What happened in the Abyss….”

"Should I explain that as well? You seemed rather unfamiliar with their title." Grimm seems to relax a touch at the change in topic.

“If you feel like you must.” The King’s expression seemed to shift in tone, going from silent and almost stoic to something else that was almost too deep to decipher.

"I'm not entirely sure how much all of you know of this," Grimm says, leaning forward, "but the Abyss below this Palace is one of many pools of what is known as Void: a substance that is remarkably dangerous and deadly to all living and non-living beings, even us gods. Most people only know of them as places to avoid, where maybe you toss those cursed objects which are causing you so much difficulty within your kingdom. At least, that's what some use them for. But what if I told you they are all connected, and were once a singular being of unknowable force?"

The Lady’s face drains into that of growing confusion and horror, and even Herrah, who had since twisted her head back around, visibly tenses. Dryya’s eyes flicker to the black stains that were just barely visible on her King’s claws.

"Terrifying, yes?" He spreads his hands over the table in front of him. "Something so deadly, laying dormant beneath this very kingdom, and so many others as well. But how did it get there? Why is it there? How could it be so powerful as to harm even gods with a mere touch? And if it was some being before, then what - _or who_ \- was it before?"

He grins at this, looking them all over, and snaps his fingers. Rose colored flames spring between his hands, flickering in a wild line for but a moment before forming vague shapes and silhouettes. Bodies, beast-like in nature, impossible to clearly identify what they were, come into focus. Things with wings, both bug-like and not, and talons, and tails, bodies full of soft fluff, or hard skeletons, with ridges and curves. Innumerable beings of all sorts, so unlike the shapes of the bugs here in Hallownest that it was difficult to even consider them as real beings who could have roamed the planet at all.

"Strangely enough, all these questions point further and further back into history - but not that of mortals. Rather, that of _gods_ ." The figures leap into life, spreading across the table for a better look. Some held high postures, others growled and hissed, and others did their own thing, preening the land or observing the sky or performing other hobbies. "This may seem off track, and I know not all of us are gods here, but have you ever considered _how_ you've gotten here? Where we came from, as gods? Surely, your memory doesn't stretch all the way to the beginning of time."

All three of them in the room are transfixed by the lights, by the constantly contorting and changing images that flash before them on the table, so many odd creatures, so many unknown Gods, all of them foreign, strange, so otherworldly that it almost felt as if they weren’t of the world at all. When the shadows of the beasts receded and became that of Gods, the Lady was the first one to move, dipping her head ever so closer to the strange apparitions, watching as they moved and postured and posed, a small, small smile starting to curl up her lips. “...I recognize them, just a touch… My mind can feel many connections to my Mother Root, but they’re all...so fuzzy.... But I feel like I’ve seen them all before. Somehow.”

Herrah scoffs slightly, her hands crossing, legs twitching ever so slightly. “Nice to know your flair for theatrics hasn’t been lost.”

Grimm rolls his eyes at Herrah. "My theatrics will never die." He turns to the White Lady. "Now, what you're saying is very true. There's a sense of recognition, but it's not clear, correct? You can remember your forebears, but not in any precise manner. Well. What if - and humor me for a moment, since this is rather controversial, even amongst gods - but what if, a long, _long_ time ago, before bugs and Wyrms, all the gods we know, all the gods you see here, were...."

The flames converge in the center, each character continuing their own pursuits while becoming one large conglomeration of moving parts.

"All one Great God."

The King visibly winces at the sight of that writhing mass, as does the Lady, and the memory that just barely flickers through both of their heads is enough to make them clutch their temples in agony. The Lady hisses sharply, her eyes watering as she shoots a glare down at her husband. “Is _that_ what happened down there?! You somehow saw that...thing and nearly made me topple over?!”

“I wasn’t exactly _prepared_ for what would happen, dear.” The King looks similarly in pain, his hands wrapped around two of his spires in his crown.

Herrah simply raises a brow, as does Dryya, looking slightly confused.

Grimm instantly snaps his fingers and the figures dancing along the table spread out into their individual forms once more. "Apologies, apologies. I forgot about... what you saw. A very overwhelming image, if I may say so myself."

"It looked like a massive blob of fire," Dryya said pointedly.

"To you," Grimm told her, "but to a god - we have certain sensitivities to more mystical forces. The King, for example, has a glow about him that is visible to mortals as well as gods. Imagine if all gods had a similar visual about them. Now imagine if all those visuals overlapped on top of each other, compounding its brightness and strength and power. Blinding, painfully so, and overwhelming to the senses. And that's how it is to us gods to see such a... compelling force."

The Lady visibly relaxes as soon as the fire dissipates back into its original state, pulling up a chair to sit, her hands covering her eyes for a moment, still visibly disoriented. “Ugh… And that was just a memory of what the King saw… Gods, don’t try to think of-“ She immediately tenses up again, this time not even bothering with holding back a pained cry. “AaaAAH-! STOP THAT!”

“I can’t _not_ think about it when you keep mentioning the damned thing!” The King’s head was practically pressed to the table at this point.

"How about we move along to the other gods?" Grimm gestures to the figures in front of them, pulling a few of them away from the King and Lady to give them a little space. "The essential idea is that, over time, this one being became many, and those gods divided themselves into other gods, and so on and so forth until today. Typically these divisions came along spheres of influence. A water god might split into a sea god and a rain god, for instance."

"Isn't that what you did, though?" Herrah frowns at him.

"No. My sphere of influence remained the same, merely divided between a physical and nonphysical line. These divisions created entirely new gods, with their own abilities and spheres. Although, the idea of memory is similar. After splitting spheres and becoming new gods, prior memories tend to become dull, over time."

“Rrrgh...” The King finally picks his head up, and goes to refill his cup of tea, not even caring that it’s long gone cold. “I… did get some small flashes of what I assume is that splitting process, down there… It feels… odd.”

The Lady herself starts to calm down as well, rubbing her forehead. “I… Would it be possible for my husband to go through such a process? He… He came from a Wyrm, but he’s still that of a God.”

Grimm shrugs lightly. "Legends say Wyrms were created by one of the first gods. Legends also say bugs were created by multitudes of other gods. It's difficult to say if that implies power on the behalf of the creations, though your ascent, Pale King, would be indicative that, well...." He frowns at the thought, considering it for a moment before letting it free from his mouth. "Perhaps there is a way for creations to _become_ gods? Wyrms definitely had powers back then, but they weren't considered _gods_. But you're definitely on par with gods now, and your sphere would definitely be something along the lines of order and Soul. It's a strange idea, though I suppose the idea of any god or being splitting is strange to consider."

“What does this have to do with the earthquake, Grimm? What happened down there?” Herrah interrupts, her fingers tapping against her arm, starting to look impatient.

"Ah, yes!" He brightens a little, one of his hands springing to point upward for no apparent reason. "You see, if gods can split and split and split into smaller and smaller fragments of themselves, then it stands to reason that some gods are older and less split than others. Perhaps there were some occasions when large groups of gods split at around the same time, but not _everyone_ would split continually in such a way. This would incur power struggles and wars between gods-" He waves a little flippantly as if skipping through some book he was reading form. "-and thus give reason to some of the feuds between certain gods - I'm sure we're well aware of at least one - and a whole variety of other things. But this wouldn't merely be something between us smaller, younger gods. It would've been true for those older gods as well. And gods - especially older gods - being as strange and, for lack of better terms, lawless as we are, then it only stands to reason that the results of a god being, say, _killed_ by another god would result in some strange after effect of their being, yes?"

Everyone’s faces drop into that of shock, and the King feels his claws clench violently. “...Something… killed the Shade Lord?”

 _"Yes_." Grimm grins, and the look would almost seem malicious if they didn't have an idea for how fervid he could be. The fire before them twists into an amalgam of odd limbs and horns and bright eyes and whipping tendrils. "You see, the running theory about the Shade Lord, Being of Void, Sovereign of Nothing, Knower of the Unknown-" He takes a breath. "-is that some other god vanquished it long ago, in such a way as to render them into a state of nigh complete stasis, lacking form and focus. The pools of Void scattered throughout the Wastes are remnants of that battle, either direct pieces of their old body or blood which spilt onto the land." The fire almost seemed to melt, scattering into separate pools of varying sizes. "And while the Shade Lord may very well have been killed, in a certain sense of the word, there are ways to call upon them, to momentarily provide them with form and focus, so as to strike a deal with the old god. Killed, then, but not dead."

The King feels a shudder run down his spine at such a sight, as if the terror of such a being was so powerful that even a mere facsimile was enough to make his heart still within his chest. His eyes moved to peer at the Lady’s expression, and saw one of growing horror, of fear and awe mixed into one, while Herrah remained still, remained poised, not giving even a single twitch away. Dryya herself was subconsciously gripping her sword, her posture kept tense and her body going rigid.

The King lets out a sigh before he spoke. “...I gained knowledge of the Shade Lord via some… unconventional means. I had run into a roadblock in my quest for the answer to the Radiance’s blight, and I had been testing the nature of the Void in order to see if it was what I needed. In theory, as it is lacking any kind of mind, wants, or needs, there is no way it could be enthralled by the infection, and thus, it was the perfect way to go about curing it. But I couldn’t find a way to give it focus, to give it the proper form it needed in order for it to withstand being outside of its own mass. If it is introduced to a husk by itself, it merely consumes the infection and then consumes the host. If it is introduced to a hollow shell, it falls apart and dissipates the moment the shell is broken. I needed something… concrete, and I needed the Void to allow me to manipulate it so it would accept the concrete method."

"Personally," Grimm says, and then pauses and frowns. He glances between everyone. "Personally, I would not have introduced the idea of the Shade Lord into all of this. They're unpredictable at best, and, as someone who provides deals myself, I am wary of such an old god wielding such a power. And I told the King this before we approached the Lord. All the texts I've come across say his deals always are fair, that he never asks for more than he gives, but it can be difficult to tell what _fair_ means for someone so old, or to what extent it goes. There could have been ways to find a cure without his help, but..." He shrugs, sighing. "That would require more time. So the options would be to either wait for an unknown time in the hopes that _something_ would happen eventually, or approach the Shade Lord and hope their price was not too high."

Herrah turns to glance at the King, saying nothing for a moment. “...You seek to use the Void to create a vessel to contain the infection?”

“...What other option did I have left?”

"I advised against it," Grimm reiterates, "and I understand your worry. But I think it is worth pointing out that time has _not_ been on your side in this at all. The infection is spreading all too fast, and if it requires a godly touch to fix it, you have limited options and limited resources. The Shade Lord offers both more time and more resources."

“...But how do we know if we have the time to even make these vessels?” The Lady’s eyes stray from Grimm to the King, frowning softly. “It took you all this time to just get started. To just have the Void at all. And now it may already be too late.”

The King feels his heart shrivel at the sight of his beloved looking so hopeless, and he reaches out to take her hand. “It… It isn’t too late. The Shade Lord said that I will figure out what I need to do in time. What… What I need to sacrifice in time.”

Herrah and Dryya both sharply look towards the King. “Sacrifice?”

“...It… It said I needed to… sacrifice my own...”

"Your own?" Herrah repeats. "Can't that - wha- can't that mean the entire kingdom!?"

"The deal requires that the Shade Lord help in stopping the infection. The Lord wouldn't set the price on a kingdom it was trying to save." Grimm folds his hands in front of him. "It's meant to be obscure."

“...But we still don’t know if the time we have is enough.” The Lady speaks up, once more, and this time, everyone is silent.

“...Pardon me, my Lady.” Dryya suddenly looks upwards. “But… T-There’s something I’m not understanding here.”

"And what would that be, Dryya?" The Lady turns to her.

“...This Grimm, as you said… He is the God of Nightmares, yes? And the one causing the plague, the Radiance, is that of Dreams? Then… why doesn’t Grimm just use nightmares to prevent more from becoming infected?”

Grimm frowns. "I don't know if it would... Wait." He slowly stops, considering it, and frowns harder. "The infection has been spreading through dreams?"

"Yes."

"And the more people have dreams, the more they get infected?"

"Yes."

"And you're thinking that if they're having _nightmares_ instead of _dreams_...." His eyes widen. "That... that might actually work."

There was a large, large amount of silence. The King was staring down at his tea with wide eyes, and Grimm looked frozen. Slowly, the King puts his head in his hands, eyes covered. “..Gods dammit...”

Grimm rubs his face and runs his his hands back over his horns. "Okay, okay. I can do that. But I have to do something first. Hallownest is too big for me to do consistently just by myself.”

“What do you need to do?” The Lady blinks up at him, looking hopeful.

"Ah..." He grips his horns, almost looking apologetic. "This isn't going to sound good."

“...What is it?” The King’s hands slide down his face to expose his eyes.

"A part of the Ritual is setting torches in certain kingdoms. Nothing crazy there. When the torches are lit, my presence is pulled toward the kingdom and nightmares become more abundant, which is what we'd be looking for. But...." He winces. "When a torch is lit - when _all_ of them are lit, it also... How should I put this? It's typically a sign that the kingdom is about to fall. That there's enough nightmarish energy lingering in it for me to collect and replenish myself."

“...So lighting your torch would essentially be an omen of death?”

"Essentially? Yes." He relaxes somewhat. "It sounds bad, but it... it doesn't necessarily _mean_ death. It could also be rebirth. Making something new. A second chance. And I can hold myself from taking too much for it to be... fatal." He winces again and rubs his face. "Ugh, that sounds so bad."

“We _have_ heard distant tales of kingdoms falling into ruin and the torches lighting red before.” Dryya speaks up, her expression kept stoic. “I’m sure the public would also know such tales as well.”

"The torches wouldn't have to be public." Grimm sighs slightly, frowning in thought. "Usually we only set them in one place, somewhere no one would find them unless they searched every nook and cranny. Your kingdom isn't as large as some others I've been to.... If we put more than necessarily needed..." He nods after a moment. "Yes, that would be enough. All I would need is somewhere hidden to place them, even if it's on the borders of your kingdom."

“Hmm… The most hidden places would have to be either the Howling Cliffs or the Kingdom’s Edge.” The King mumbles slightly, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“My Troupe is already stationed on the Howling Cliffs. It would be easier to start there.” He taps his fingers again. “Are you absolutely certain you are fine with this? I want to make absolutely certain on this.”

“...If it means protecting those that are still sane from the plague, then yes.” He straightens, shoulders tensing ever so slightly, folding his hands, fingers clenching. “If it means buying time for what I need to do, then yes.”

Grimm inclines his head. "Very well. I will send word to my Troupe as soon as I am able. They will be able to prepare the torches."

The King nods softly, his eyes finally closing, his stomach still drawn into a fearsome knot, his claws still shaking from stress, his throat feeling sore and his heart jittering like it was close to ceasing to beat entirely. He wondered if his emotions were causing such physical sensations, or if his body was so exhausted at this point that he just simply couldn’t register anything from his mind anymore.

Grimm nods slightly and stands, opening his mouth to say a farewell, when he sways and quickly puts a hand on the table to steady himself. He cringes, bringing a hand to his head as the tea cups on the table rattle from the sudden jostling. "Ergh. Bloody..."

The Lady blinks, as does Herrah, both of them speaking in unison . “Are you alright?”

"I'm - I'm fine, just..." He rubs his forehead. "Must be everything catching up to me. I had to do a bit of heavy lifting with my Troupe recently, and then summoning the Shade Lord..." He shakes his head. “It shouldn’t be an issue.”

The Lady narrows her eyes and she folds her arms. “How long has it been since you two last slept?”

The King blinks, slightly, as if just barely realizing she spoke at all. “Um...3 hours ago, I believe.”

"I put him to sleep because he was being..." Grimm waves a hand, slowly sinking back into his seat. "Weird. I did rest while with my Troupe. I'll be fine."

“It doesn’t look like you’re fine. In fact, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re both about to drop dead.”

“Honey, please-“

“No. You’re going to go and sleep, right now.” The Lady narrows her eyes even harder, pointing towards an unopened door. “Grimm, there’s a guest room you can use. Go, sleep, now.”

"I - I'm fine, really." Grimm grins lightly. "I appreciate the offer, but I would rather not intrude. And I prefer sleeping upside down-"

“Go. Sleep. Now.” She points harder at the door, her posture never changing but her expression growing with that of a stern anger that dare not be fueled any further.

He blinks, staring for a long moment, before slowly standing up. "Al... alright.... Um..." He glances at the door, then back at the group as if looking for help.

“What are you waiting for? You heard her.” Herrah is staring at him.

He huffs, holding back from rolling his eyes, and walks toward the door. "I'll write up a note for you to send to my Troupe so they're prepared and understand what has happened. Then I'll sleep."

The Lady huffs for a moment, but then seems to concede. “Fine then, but if I come back and you aren’t asleep in that bed I’ll...I’ll...I don’t know what I’ll do, but I’ll do it!”

He turns around from within the doorway, squinting at her. "Somehow, I doubt that."

“Please don’t argue with her on thiiOWOWOW-!” The King feels her hand grab onto one of his spires and practically yank him up out of his chair, dragging him towards the exit with a carefully restrained anger.

“And you, mister, are going to go and sleep in your bed like you _should_ have been doing instead of _locking_ yourself in the basement!”

“Ow, ow, honey, please, that hurts!”

“Good!”

Grimm's eyes widen a bit as he watches the exchange. "Yikes." He turns to Dryya and Herrah. "Have they always been like this?"

Herrah shakes her head. “Oh no, not at all. I think it’s just the stress of everything that’s going on. That, and, well, she just learned that you’ve been alive for all this time and that her husband purposefully didn’t tell her that he had summoned you back here.” She pauses for a moment, then slowly reaches out to put a hand on his shoulder. “I know you don’t remember us, but she remembers you. Just like I do. You were a good friend to all of us, and it took a long time for the scars to heal. Seeing you like this...new and...not the same, it must’ve reopened some.”

He watches her for a moment, then sighs lightly. "Trust me, I... I know. My Troupe..." He frowns. "It's a little different, but some of them... Hm. Maybe you'll be able to see them sometime soon, though." He grins at that. "That would be interesting."

“I suppose it would.” There was a new glint in her eye, a slightly mirthful one. “Now, did it finally change from all of that pathetic prose and flashy stage performances? Please tell me it did; I don’t think I could stomach all of that nonsense again.”

He smirks. "I kept some of the theatrics, though I doubt it holds a candle to Enkay's. I've never quite been one for classic plays. It's more.... hmm... have you ever been to a carnival before? Or a haunted house?"

There was silence, and Herrah’s expression turns into that of both imminent dread and confusion. “...Oh no...”

Grimm's lips curled inward mischievously. "Oh _yes_."

 

•••

 

When the King’s eyes opened, he saw red. A haze of red, a bright spotlight of crimson that seemed to both overtake all of his sight and yet leave just enough space for everything to become shrouded in darkness. He was laying on the ground, which seemed to be barren of any furnishings, any life, no pillow or blanket to speak of, and he grimaced upon realizing that wherever he was, it was really, _really_ hot. The heat was so thick and humid that it was almost palpable, and he lifts his hand to press it to his throat because he almost couldn’t tell if he was breathing at all, fingers trembling, idly wondering when he had last had a drink of water. He slowly brings himself to push himself up, groaning softly as he lifts a hand to his head, his vision blurring and shifting in an almost messy scrawl from the effects of the heat that was burning him up. He forced himself to take a deep breath, then another, and another, shaking his head so as to destroy the almost... light sensation that was beginning to fill his veins, to the point where he thought that he was about to pass out. Guh. His mouth felt dry, his limbs felt as if they were barely there, and his heart, it was beating so loud. It wasn’t like it was a weak beat, either, it was hard and strong and it’s making his bones rattle and his breathing stutter and _dear Gods why is it so loud?_  

A gentle hand touches his shoulder, squeezing in reassurance, and another comes around to hold his other arm's elbow. Some of the dizziness faded ever so slightly at the feeling of familiar hands, pulling him close to a firm chest. He swears he hears a hushing noise under the thumping of his heart trying to escape his ribs, but he can't quite be sure amidst the racket.

“Ghh..” He tries to speak, but all that comes out is a weak groan of gibberish. His tongue was rubber, his mind was just barely able to hold together that something was touching him at all, and any attempt he tried to make of speaking was like trying to hold water between one’s teeth. His vision pulsed, his sense of motion and balance seemed to slowly tilt to one side, and he found his claws clinging to whatever it was that was holding him upwards, attempting to take in deep breaths amidst the crackling heat that seemed to be filling him, choking him, drowning him. He coughed once, twice, and his eyes attempted to open, to see whoever was holding him, the pounding of his heart echoing like a drum in his mind.

A chin rests on his shoulder and the chest behind him breathes deeply, enough for the King to feel the inhale and exhale. Their hands move to wrap around his middle, thin, knobbly fingers interlocking with one another. Some microscopic degree of heat left his lungs to be replaced with something fresher and cooler. He slowly brings himself to concentrate on the sensation of that chest beneath his own burning carapace, and his eyes shut as he feels the fragment of that warmth drain out of his lungs. He takes deeper, stronger breaths, and slowly, ever so slowly, he feels his mind beginning to clear, his thoughts becoming steady, his flesh finally cooling, his nerves no longer a melting mess due to the sweltering pyre. He finally opens his eyes, vision blurring at least once, twice, before solidifying, and he’s left staring into a face that is somehow both familiar and also not at all. He can’t help but frown slightly, unsure of this being, his heart still pounding away, though it seemed less powerful now. “...May I ask… who you are?”

The being smirks, the expression almost curling their lips inward. "We are the one you would call The Nightmare King."

At first, the King doesn’t move, his senses still slowly reforming, but his eyes stray away to survey the room once more, still finding it as bare as it first was, though the red tint in the air seems to have somewhat faded. “...Grimm did not put me to sleep this time… I take it you entered my dreams of your own volition?”

"Mm, you could say that." The voice was smoother, deeper, as if it were Grimm's own but without some kind of horrendous damage to his vocal chords. It didn't match the face in front of him, but it did, and something about it sent a chill down his spine. "Though... this isn't _your_ dream, and we’re not the one trespassing."

The tone in which it was said causes the King to pause, and something in his body seems to grow tense, to whisper of possible danger. He slowly brings himself up to his feet, turning away from this new acquaintance, his hands clenching and unclenching. “...You dragged me into your territory, then...What do you plan to do to me, Nightmare King? _Can_ you do anything to me, rather? As much as I wish I was, I’m afraid I’m not an expert on the laws that this place upholds.”

In an instant his joints lock up and his feet glue to the ground in a rather uncomfortable position. The Nightmare King chuckles from behind him, a slow, daunting sound that echoes all around. A distant, loud _ba-dum_ resounds through the room - if it could be called a room - and a flurry of undulating crimson laces out around them, momentarily brightening their surroundings and then casting them back into neutral shadows. Footsteps approach him, and the feeling of a face nears his cheek from behind.

"We..." A hand wraps over his shoulder, not touching a single thread of his cloak, and gently, _ever so gently,_ cups his chin. "...can do anything we want to, Little Wyrm."

The King’s blood runs cold, chilled to ice within his veins the moment he feels the movement of his limbs suddenly cease, as if his control over his body had simply evaporated, the sound of the other God’s laughter causing the crimson light around them to flare with an almost unnatural ease, before casting them back into relative darkness. He tries to force his fingers to bend, his arms to move, anything, but he is left paralyzed, and he can’t help but feel his breath hitch in his throat as soon as he feels that face near his own, as soon as those claws almost tenderly touch his skin, dread and fear and an almost uncomfortable level of _familiarity_ causing his stomach to twist, trying to force his tongue to move so that he could speak. “...That is... very much noted. Do you intend to kill me?”

"Oh, no, not at all. You're worth much more alive at this point, though you came close with the stunt you pulled with the Voidling." The hand slides away from his chin and The Nightmare King's presence pulls away from him. The tenseness in his body remains, though he can just barely flex the pointer finger on one hand. The god rounds him, looking him over as if searching for the best spot to sink a knife into. They were taller, definitely. The more neutral colors in their cloak had been swapped with a mesmerizing, almost glowing red. Even their horns shone crimson where they once had been black. "They rather like you, Enkay and Grimm. You should count yourself lucky for that. We almost let loose on you when we saw our ashes mixed with _Void_ of all things. Pity Grimm's will is so strong. Your crown would make excellent toothpicks."

The King forces himself to keep his expression steady, even as his heart begins to pound harder, his face contorting into a wince at the mention of the abomination that had been born from the contaminated jar. He lets his eyes close, and for a moment, he says nothing. “...Forgive me. I had not known such a reaction between the Void and the ashes would’ve taken place. I was… desperate, and in my desperation, I had lost my reason. I know my mistake now, and I’ve regretted it, even now.”

"And what mistake would that be?" They stop in front of him, eyes narrowing to thin slits. The glow pulses from above, twice, before dulling down to barely perceptible throbs.

“...I dared to meddle with powers I could not truly comprehend. I spat in the face of my ally and friend, damn near tarnished his trust, and in doing so, invaded his privacy with the recklessness of a child. I know my mistakes. I...merely have to learn from them.”

Those eyes keep their hold of him, and then suddenly snap to the side as The Nightmare King continues walking around him. "Good enough." His limbs suddenly snap free of their invisible bindings.

He gasps as he feels his legs give away beneath him, and he finds himself collapsing onto his knees, shaking for a moment from the sudden strain before he pushes himself back up to his feet. He folds his arms, trying to keep himself as composed as possible, his head turning to watch as the Nightmare King continues to pace. “...Is there something you desire of me? Surely there is more to this meeting than an idle threat.”

"It's mostly an idle threat," they admit. "You know a lot. We don't like you knowing a lot. After all, you _did_ get us killed before." They slow their pace, and the glow pulses overhead. "Didn't you?"

He is silent for what seems like the longest time, his eyes turned downwards, towards the floor. “...I was not aware of the dangers he was in. I was not aware of the tyranny She possessed.”

"You watched Her accuse him of a deed you dealt."

His eyes close, a burning sensation creeping up within them, and his hands clench, the pain feeling as if he was getting stabbed and the blade was being twisted. “...Yes...”

"...He took it for you knowing you were meant for greater things."

Tears run down his face. His voice wobbles. “...I know...”

There's a long silence, and then a short huff. The Nightmare King crosses his arms and turns away from him. "He forgives you. We don't understand it. But he does."

The King’s shoulders shake as he lets out a soft, breathless laugh, his hand coming up to rub one of his eyes. “Of course… Of course he does… He never held a grudge… not once, since I’ve known him.”

"Never. Always _passive_." There's something bitter in their tone, but he can't quite place it. "If he'd had just a little more time, Grimm wouldn't have seen a thing. But we suppose if he wasn't out _there_ the pyre wouldn't have been lit. A difficult time indeed."

They sigh, and continue walking, pacing around the King.

“...I know you may see me as a threat, or as a reckless idiot, or however you wish to phrase it. But know that I do not wish any harm to come to you. I only wish the best for you.”

They frown. "We can tell. You still care for him. Both of them. It's almost amusing." Their fingers trill against their arms, and the pulse from above beats across the ceiling. "And as such, we wish you no harm, though that will change if harm befalls us."

“Of course I care for them. Why would I not?”

"Because they're different? Because we're different? Because there's both of us and all of us here as well? Most wouldn't want to deal with such a thing." Nothing he says is self-pitying. Purely factual.

“Differences or not, I find myself caring about them all the same.” He turns his head to stare at him, smiling softly. “The fact that you seem to put forth such worry for them is enough to make me even care about you. After all, there’s a difference between compassion and self-preservation. And I sense more of the former in you.”

They scowl. "You wouldn't be alive right now if this was purely self-preservation." Their fingers trill again. "We want you to do something for us."

The King stares at him for a moment before letting out a sigh. “...I can tell you misunderstood me. I did not mean compassion for myself. I meant compassion for you. For your selves. For both Enkay _and_ Grimm. I’m sure if other Gods had this type of power, they’d treat it with the care of a child trashing their toys. You actually take the time to show concern or worry, and I respect that.”

They glance at him sidelong. "We actually want you to do two things. One will take more care than the other."

“Name them.”

"One." They hold up a finger. "We can't hold this conversation indefinitely. Someone would either notice, or your mind would melt from your proximity to us. Find another method to talk with us and we’ll provide you more information to help with your case. Information Grimm currently lacks."

The King can’t help but blink slightly, though he manages to hold his tongue to avoid asking questions. “...And the second?”

"Second..." They take a breath, again pausing, and rub their face. "We need you to talk to Grimm."

There was a slight pause, and the King tilts his head. “...About what?”

They watch him for a moment. "Enkay." He takes another breath and walks toward him. "What happened to him. How you two met. What teas he liked. Anything. Just keep talking to him about it and don't stop. He needs to remember, but, well..." They sigh, and it almost comes off as annoyed. "His first recalls aren't pleasant and he knows it. Once he gets past that, he should be ready for everything else."

At first, there was nothing but silence, but then the King looks downwards for a moment, a flash of a memory passing through his head. He nods, softly. “I promise.”

The Nightmare King watches him for a long time, and then frowns. They say nothing for a long moment, and then incline their head a half inch. "We appreciate your swift decision. Thank you." After a small moment of hesitation, they bend at the waist, bowing to his level. "Until next time, Pale King."

The King takes a step back or two, and slowly bows back. “Until next time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank y'all so much for making it all the way through this monster of a chapter. Not quite as long as the last, buuuut pretty long still.
> 
> Just thought we'd mention that one of us (this fic is brought to you by two peeps for those who don't know) is currently in a summer college session. Shouldn't affect things too much, but in case midterms/finals get crazy, just something to keep an eye on. The session only lasts until the first/second week of August, so not a huge amount of time. Just thought y'all would want to know.
> 
> But *damn* has this been fun writing. Just curious here, and feel free to comment or not but: who's your favorite characters so far?


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Blood and body horror will be shown within this chapter.
> 
> So...We’re finally back, and with a new chapter. This doesn’t mean we won’t disappear into another small hiatus, given how both of us are now dealing with college, but we finally can update this story again. We hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> Feel free to leave us fan art in the comments, should you choose to draw it. We’d really appreciate it.

The King’s eyes slowly find themselves opening, and this time, the heat, the almost consuming presence of that almost foreign nightmare, is completely and utterly gone, and he’s left staring up at the familiar marble white ceiling. His body feels heavy, almost like his shell had turned to be as dense as stones, and he lets himself take a deep breath, letting the air fill his lungs, just to remind himself that he’s still here, that he is no longer asleep. He brings up a hand to rub at his face, his forehead, letting his claws drag down the lids of his eyes, before he sits up in the bed, leaning his head against his wife’s shoulder, his mind still disheveled, still reeling from the dizzying realm of sleep. “Uuugh....”

"Are you alright, my dear?" A hand wraps around his chin, stroking gently. After a moment, she pulls him a little closer, kissing the top of one of his spires. "You don't seem like you slept all that well. You can sleep more if you want. It's still early."

He can’t help but sigh, even as he feels himself relax at the presence of his Root, letting himself nuzzle just a touch closer. “No, no...If I’m awake now, I can’t sleep again....I just...saw something, as I slept.”

"Saw something? A dream? A nightmare?" She pauses at that. "It was a nightmare, wasn't it? How bad?"

“It...” His eyes narrow, and he finds it hard to piece the words together. “It wasn’t a nightmare per say. At first it seemed that way, but the creature within it did not pose any harm.” His hand does reach up to his spires. “He did say some rather alarming things about using my crown as toothpicks, though.”

The White Lady is silent for a moment, and then suddenly chuckles at the thought, light at first, and then a little louder. "Toothpicks? Darling, your crown would make a _horrible_ set of toothpicks." She giggles a moment longer, cupping his face and pushing his hand away, nuzzling his forehead. "Was that the worst of it?"

He can’t help but crack a smile upon hearing her laugh; it was such a beautiful sound and he hadn’t heard it since this all began. “I believe so. I’m sure he could’ve done worse, but he did not see any worth in doing so.”

"Mm, that's good." She strokes his face, smiling so gently, her eyes almost sparkling in the meager light of the room. "I have a good feeling about today."

“Is that so? Mind telling me why?”

"It's the day we turn the tide. I can feel it. We've been on the defensive all this time, but now we can push back. Once Grimm sets himself to guard the people's minds, we can focus on more permanent measures. And if there's anyone who can figure that out-" She bops his forehead. "It's you, my love."

That gets him to smile harder, but the calm, quiet warmth he feels blooming in his chest grows bitter, grows cold, and he tries to nod to cover it up. “Yes...Yes, I suppose you’re right...I can’t believe it myself...”

"I haven't been able to watch Grimm, as usual, but one of the aides mentioned something about a visit in his letter he sent his people last night. Do you think we'll be able to see them again? It's been so long."

“I don’t see why we can’t visit them. It would be nice to see how much things have changed. Do you remember the way Enkay would make those silly props and flaunt them on that wooden stage of his?” He can’t help but chuckle at the memory.

She snickers. "He was always so serious about it, until someone inevitably prodded him enough. Then the _real_ drama would come out. How many times did we hear him say, 'You strike me with your words and here I shall lay forever'?"

“About as many times as it took for me to scream at him, ‘if you say that again I will strangle you with your own cape.’” He smirks at that, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. “I forget how violent I was back then.”

"You're most definitely more patient nowadays, yes." She grins widely. "I was considering a few things last night. And as heartbreaking it is to know Grimm cannot recall us, I can't help but be amused thinking of his reaction to certain _specific_ encounters."

His eyes narrow, and he feels a light flush coming to his cheeks, and he immediately pulls away to cross his arms, sputtering as his voice grows higher for a moment. “D-Don’t you dare say _anything_ to him about that!”

She bursts out laughing, and hugs him close. "Oh, darling, I'd never, but if he remembers on his own? Just picture it. He's remembering all this important stuff and then suddenly realizes you two were lovers in a past life. Imagine the look on his face!"

“That is _nothing_ to _laugh_ about! That-That would be horrible! How could he look me in the face after-after...” He grows even more red and puts his head in his hands. “Ooh, I can’t even say it, that’s how bad it is!”

She chuckles, calming down somewhat, and nuzzles him gently. "I think you're making it out to be worse than it could be. He'd be entirely fine with you after, I swear."

“How do you even know? It’s not like you’re in his mind too. You don’t know what he’s thinking. I just learned that he doesn’t even know who he is, or who he used to be!”

"Please, if he's going to be embarrassed about anything, it's how sappy and romantic Enkay was. He seems the very composed type. Remembering how Enkay draped himself over you and wrote all those poems and kissed you so serenely-"

The King’s face instantly turns bright red, and his wings flare outwards, his voice rising higher in pitch as he moves his hands to press against the sides of his head, turning away from her. “You’re making it worse! You’re making it so much worse!”

“And how he would light candles and gather blankets and pillows to use as a big nest-“

“Stop talking! Stop talking this instant, you-you blasted fiend!” 

“Oh come on, dearest, it’s not like he’s going to see anything _that_ depraved. It’s just about the same as what we do on a regular-“

“CEASE YOUR JABBERING RIGHT NOW!” He can’t help but howl, practically curled up into a ball, hands covering his eyes and his face feeling like it was melting. He can hear his wife just uproariously laughing behind him, and he moves to stumble to his feet, desperately snatching his robes up off the floor, struggling to get dressed properly as fast as he could. “I denounce you. I denounce you as my Queen forever. You’re horrible to me. I’ll throw your plants out the window. I’ll burn the Gardens to the ground, don’t think I won’t.”

There was a strangled snort, before his wife’s voice is heard again, thick with mirth and impending mischief. “Darling?”

He looks back towards her despite his better judgement. “What?”

She was smiling, grinning ear to ear, and within an instant, images flooded his head. His face could not get any hotter. 

“I SWEAR I WILL TEAR THAT ROOT RIGHT OUT OF MY SKULL!” He can’t help but scream as he desperately yanks on the last of his robes and practically slams open the door, hearing his love just dissolve into an even harder cackling fit behind him.

Still red in the face and self-consciously smoothing his robes down, he hurries down the hall toward the main chambers of the Palace. He was glad his wife was in a better mood, and in all honesty he wasn't angry in the least and all his words were in jest, but he had always been somewhat prudish. At least, he had been for quite some time. He rubs a hand over his face, incoherently mumbling out his embarrassment before taking a breath. A new day. He should probably find Grimm.

He continued to walk along the hallway, passing by the nobles and advisors and occasionally one or two Kingsmoulds, ones that always stood at attention and went perfectly still the moment they saw him, but he simply paid them no mind and kept on going, the gaze of their eyes making his shell tingle ever so slightly. It was only when he was close to the Knight’s courtroom that he actually heard the sounds of activity, of wooden swords clashing and Ogrim laughing in his usual merry fashion, and the King paused, before moving to peek his head into the open doorway.

Toward the center of the room, in the flat courtyard surrounded by pillars which was reserved specifically for sparring sessions, Ogrim stood parrying blows from some target in front of him. The King couldn't quite make out who, but it was clear it wasn't any of the other Knights, who stood on the sideline observing the match. But then a little dart of bluish black sped off into the air, and-

Was that-?

Was that _Quirrel_ ? Clinging to a pillar? Barely seeming to slide as he held the wall with only one hand? Oh, dear, Monomon was going to _kill him_ if he-

Ogrim laughs boisterously and bounces - _actually bounces_ , uses a technique typically reserved for _actual_ sparring matches - and he almost bursts in to stop the madness unfolding in front of his eyes. Quirrel, instead of darting away as one would expect a sane, self-preserving child to do, shoots off the wall _toward_ Ogrim. At the last moment, at the arc of one of Ogrim's bounces, he swings the wooden sword in his hands down and pogos off the round Knight's armour. He arcs toward the other side of the room - not exactly graceful, but still remarkably poised for someone so young - and grabs at a pillar on the other side of the room. He slides for a moment, and almost loses his grip on his sword, but holds position after only a few moments.

That was....remarkably unexpected. 

The King realizes his jaw was now loose and hanging and quickly shuts it, his teeth clicking together as he does so, watching as the other Knights let out an applause of clapping and cheering. He finally decides to make his entrance, walking in and clearing his throat, his voice ringing throughout the room. “Ogrim? What do you think you’re doing?”

Quirrel makes a small noise of surprise and almost drops his sword again, and Ogrim bounces a few more times, and then slides to a stop. He unfurls from his shell with a small hop and sheepishly turns to the King, though a large smile is still plastered across his face. "Oh! My King! I didn't see you there, ohoh. We found out last night that the young one is rather good at swinging a blade."

The King’s eye twitches slightly, and he raises a hand to pinch his forehead. It was far too early for this. “...How, Ogrim? What kind of circumstances involved giving a child a sword?”

"It's just wood!" Quirrel calls down from his perch on the pillar. He was inching his way down now, bit by bit.

"He may have... er... snuck out of his quarters in the middle of the night and found the training rooms."

“He-“ His head turns to face Quirrel. “You-“ He raises his hands up, face twisting as if he was about to explode into a yelling fit, before he just buried his head in his hands and lets out a very heavy groan. “Uuuuuuuugh...” His head lifts up once again, and he gives a stern glare to Quirrel. “Get down from there.”

"Coming!" Quirrel judges the distance to the ground for a moment, about halfway up the column, and then dashes to the ground, rolling part way, skidding across the floor, and finally popping upright next to Ogrim looking as if he were joining a fellow classmate in a proper scolding.

The King inhales as soon as he sees Quirrel’s legs tense up, but the words die in his throat the moment he sees the child start to sprint, and he merely rubs over his eyes once more before looking back up towards the two. He glances at Quirrel first, arms crossed. “...Quirrel, why did you leave your quarters in the middle of the night?”

He blinks, arms tucking behind his back and wooden nail sticking toward the ground. "I got bored, sir."

He blinks, a brow raising. “You...got...bored.” He frowns, softly. “Do you often do this in the Archives?”

He tilts his head and considers the question. "Maybe? Kinda?" He brings a hand to his chin and taps the bottom of his mask. "I don't get bored exactly. There's always something new to find."

“Well, being bored doesn’t excuse walking around on your own, especially since you somehow stumbled onto my Knight’s training quarters.” His eyes narrowed. “What exactly happened?”

He frowns at him again. "I... walked here?"

At this, Dryya walks up to them. "The door was still locked when we got here. I think the King is asking about that."

"Oh!" He grins widely. "Yeah, I found the ventilation shafts. Much bigger than the Archives'."

“You-“ His eyes widen once more, and he pinches his face once more, eyes squinting shut. “...Please do not crawl through the ventilation shafts. You could get lost in there, _or_ stuck, _or_ suffocate or Gods knows what else. I am certainly not in the mood to deal with Monomon screaming at me because I accidentally killed her prodigy.”

"That's the second time someone's called me that, and I don't know why." He rocks back on his heels.

The King’s eyes open before snapping to face Ogrim, looking more stern this time. “Then what happened? I assume you found him in here?”

"Well." He shifts slightly. "Dryya found him when she was patrolling."

She crosses her arms. "He was talking to himself about metal compositions."

"I've never seen nails like that before!" He was both defensive and excited, and the mixture was somewhat surprising coming from such a small bug. "I mean, I've seen nails _similar_ to those ones, but, like, _behind glass._ Or drawn on paper. But they don't even look like-"

"Yeah, well, maybe you wouldn't have been caught sneaking around if you were more quiet, huh?"

He frowns at her, but doesn't fight it.

She sighs and turns back to the King. "He wasn't anywhere near them, and he didn't touch anything. The kid has-"

"Not a kid."

"The _kid_ has at least some sense in that regard."

“Didn’t you try taking him back to his quarters? Even if he’s fully recovered from being bitten, I don’t want to risk him just wandering around the Palace! Imagine if a Kingsmould had seen him and thought of him as an intruder!” The King’s wings flare slightly as his voice raises.

She barely twitches at the tone. "He told me about the shafts and how he found one in his room. Bringing him back would have just resulted in him getting out again. So I found these two-" She points at Ogrim and Hedgemol. "-to keep an eye on him." She pauses for a moment, and then pinches between her eyes. "And he talked them into coming back here before I could finish a circuit around the Palace."

The King’s eyes flick to Quirrel, and they narrow. “Why?”

"'Cause it's... neat?" He doesn't say it like a lie, not like the one he told yesterday, but more like he wasn't entirely sure of the answer himself. He shrugs as if to make a point of that.

The King sighs, and he tries to compose himself, taking a deep breath before speaking. “Child-“ He pauses. “...Quirrel, I’m not angry at you sparring with Ogrim. I’m angry because just a day ago, while the Archives was growing flooded with acid, you were attacked, _twice_. As safe as this Palace may be, there are still possible dangers, such as getting lost in a maze of air vents, for example. If I hadn’t come here, if the Knights didn’t find you, and you got stuck up in those vents, what would happen?”

“But I wouldn’t have gotten stuck.” He frowns at the idea. “I’ve never gotten stuck in a vent before.”

“But what if you _did_?”

"There's an easy two or three inches on either side of me in all directions in the vent. I physically cannot get stuck in them." He frowns harder.

“Ugh...Dryya?” 

Her hand goes on Quirrel’s shoulder.  “I believe what the King is trying to say is that what if when you were alone, something happened? Like back in the Archives? Herrah was there to help you then, but what if something happened now, and no one was looking for you because no one knew you weren’t in your room?”

He glances between them, and then looks down at the floor for a moment. At length, he looks back up at the King. "Then I'd have to help myself, wouldn't I? If no one else can help me, then I have to help me."

There was a moment of silence, and the King can feel his blood run cold. The expressions the Knights wore were similarly stricken, while Quirrel’s looked more and more...stoic, almost grim, as if his eyes had gained an eon of age while his body remained the same. 

The death of innocence, while silent, always left a gaping hole in its absence. 

The King lets out a sigh, a soft one, and he tries to relax his features. “...Is that why you asked them to sparr?”

"Ah." He looks away again and shrugs. "Monomon wouldn't let me learn. One of the teachers in the Archive tried giving me lessons, but she didn't like it. But I can't just-" He reaches for the words, one hand waving in front of him. " _-not_ learn. I know I can do it. I'm even kinda good!"

Dryya lifts a shoulder in subtle agreement. "He is remarkably talented for not having any proper length in training, my King."

"See?" He frowns a bit. "I can do this."

The King is silent for a moment, as if unsure of what to say, his brow furrowed in deep thought, before he finally lets out a sigh. “...If this is what you wish to learn, then I cannot stop you.”

His entire being seems to light up and he almost starts bouncing in place, grinning widely behind his mask. He stays put for a moment, some strange noise coming out of him, and then darts forward. His makeshift nail clatters to the ground in his place as he all but barrels into the King for a hug. "Thank you!"

“Oof!” The King can’t help but stumble back once or twice, eyes going slightly wide at the sudden hug, before he recovers himself, his arms hovering awkwardly, not sure what to do. “Erm...You’re...welcome?”

The Knights similarly stare with wide eyes, unused to seeing anyone, even a child, being so comfortable and, for lack of a better term, ill-mannered around the King. Hedgemol coughs lightly to hide a small chuckle. Quirrel pulls back after a moment, still grinning, though a bit sheepish now. "I guess I've still gotta ask Monomon about it. Wait. Aren't you going to see her some time today?"

“Uh...I suppose so, yes. I’m not sure if she’ll actually be there, but I assume she will be.” The King’s arms slowly lower and he looks much less awkward now.

"What does that mean?' A worried look crosses Quirrel's face. "You don't know where she is?"

“Well, I’m not certain if she’s going to be at the Archives dealing with repairs, or if she’ll be up tending to the wounded. As far as I know with her, she could decide on either option. But if I do see her, I’ll be sure to try my best to persuade her.”

"Can't I come?" He shifts. "I'd... like to see her too."

There was a pause, a moment of silence before the King nods, softly. “Of course. Just...remember, if you see people that have an orange glow in their eyes, don’t go near them, alright?”

He nods quickly, relief flooding him. "Yeah, yeah, of course. Orange - don't go near. Got it."

“Very well.” His eyes flick to Ogrim and the other Knights, and he nods. “You may resume.”

"Yes, my King!" Ogrim's bubbly nature returns, and he deftly commandeers the child's attention and pulls him further into the training room. Dryya watches the two for a moment until she sees them both laugh at some quiet joke Hedgemol had surreptitiously slid them. She sighs lightly and looks back to the King.

"I'd like to continue this outside, if you are so willing My King."

He blinks towards her, but then nods softly. “Of course.” He moves to step outside into the hall.

She follows, slowly spinning her nail within its sheath. She had a thoughtful look on her face. "He's an incredibly bright child, My King. That's not exactly what I want to talk about, but I wasn't mincing words in there."

“Indeed. I’m just...concerned, is all. He’s too young to have his innocence die so soon.” He sighs, then turns to face her. “What is it that you wish to discuss?”

She opens her mouth, considering a rebuttal of some kind, and then thinks twice on it and shakes her head. "I wanted to confirm the schedule with you. Or at least what you have in mind already, loosely. I know you want to see the evacuees on the surface. Is there anything else on the list we should prepare for?"

He pauses for a moment, and then the red flames of Grimm, of the Nightmare King, flash through his mind. He takes a deep breath, before he speaks. “I need a message sent to the Seer at once. It’s of grave importance.”

Dryya raises a brow, but nods. "I don't have any paper on me at the moment, but I can dictate it to another aide or write it down afterwards if you're comfortable with me doing so."

“You can write it down if you wish.” He pauses for a moment, before trying to mull the words together. “Please tell the Seer that I and Grimm, the ‘Nightmare King,’ will come to her cavern in order to conduct a ritual, necessary to buy time for the kingdom. It involves the ‘binding of two minds within the pact of time and space.’ Tell her this, and I’m sure she’ll know how to prepare.”

Her brow raises slightly at some of the words, but she picks out the points of interest and figures the exact details were more than likely something mortals shouldn't ask without thorough consideration. "To the Seer, about you and Grimm, specifically using his title, and a ritual including the binding of minds within the pact of time and space. She should know what to do. Anything else?"

“Hmm...No, I believe that will be it.”

"Sent right away? Fast tracked?"

“Yes, please.”

"Do I have permission to use your seal?"

“Yes, if you believe it to be necessary.”

She nods, considers any other questions she may have, and then nods again. "It'll be taken care of immediately." She moves to leave, and then pauses and turns back to him. "Were you looking for something by the way? Before you saw them training?"

“Yes, actually. Do you happen to know where Grimm went?”

She crosses her arms, sifting through the key points of her patrols earlier in the morning. "I never saw his door open, nor did I hear him wake up. You could check the guest room he was in. He was snoring rather loudly overnight. Though now that I'm thinking about it, I didn't hear him in the last round. He could still be in his room, but if our other guest is anything to base things on... well. You would know him better."

“Hmm...Very well. Thank you, Dryya.”

She nods and walks off without another word.

The King sighs, starting to walk off in a different direction, his hands folding together. He already suspected that Grimm was not in the guest room he had been given, and now he was sure of it; even in his old self, he had never been known to stay in one place for an extended period of time. But where _would_ he go? He didn't know much of the Palace. He could have gone roaming around to find any little crevice he wanted to. But that Dryya had yet to see him out of his room made it clear he didn't want to be seen at the moment. He would have made a spectacle of himself by now.

And even if he wanted to hide, he couldn’t really, not in a place as luminous and white and so _not_ like Grimm, with halls crawling with nobles that would shriek their lungs out at the sight of the God of Nightmares, or Kingsmoulds that would no doubt attempt to rip him to shreds the moment they saw him. He had to be somewhere that was quiet, out of the way, some place where his staff and automatons were not permitted to go to...

His eyes widen slightly and he immediately changes direction, heading down into the lower floors. He knew Grimm knew what he was doing there. He knew that Grimm was entirely capable of handling himself around deadly material. But, for whatever reason, the idea of Grimm being _alone_ in his work room was absolutely terrifying in that moment. After all, seeing as how the Shade Lord was perfectly willing to murder the both of them just by _seeing_ Grimm, then it was very possible that the Void, the incoherent flesh and remains of that monster was even more drastic, more wild, more full of rage. And if it registered that Grimm, or himself, or _anything else_ was near it...

He was almost running by the end of his thoughts, quickly approaching the room in question. He spins into the doorway and almost stops still at the immediate sight of Grimm. The god had moved 'his' chair to where the Pale King typically placed his own, and was staring down at a trapped Void specimen placed on the table in front of him. He was almost hunched over it, watching it writhe against the glass with such a look of concentration on his face. There was something worried there too, a worry deeper than anything Grimm had actually voiced so far. As he comes into the room, Grimm briefly looks up at him, lets out a small breath, and returns to eyeing the Void before him.

"You look like you've seen a ghost, dear King."

The King stands there, frozen for a moment, not even realizing how much he was trembling, or that his wings were spread, expectant to fly. He slowly folds them back up, and steps into the room, the door sliding shut behind him, the only illumination filling the room being his own glow. “...I was afraid I would be.”

"Apologies if I frightened you then." He grins lightly, but it doesn't last, and he frowns again at the jar in front of him. "I considered sneaking into the kitchen for an early snack, but I figured spooking your people at such an early hour wouldn't be befitting of a guest."

“No it would not be.” He approaches the desk, standing next to him, watching the jar for a moment before his eyes flick back to face Grimm. “..Something’s on your mind.”

"Hm." He says nothing for a moment, and then taps the jar. The Void within tries to snap at him, hits the glass, and recoils, hissing. "I'm worried about quite a few things, honestly."

“Such as?” He pulls up his own chair and sits down.

"The Shade Lord..." He huffs, moving his hand away from the glass to tap at the desk instead. "I don't know exactly how much you know about it, but I also am somewhat an arbiter of deals. They're delicate things. It's difficult to come across someone who's so willing to be fair about them, and the exact words are easy to bend if you aren't careful with them."

“Hmm...So you think the Shade Lord possibly twisted the deal we had made?” He tilts his head slightly. He honestly hadn’t considered such a thing.

"It's possible. I don't particularly trust them to begin with. I've been trying to figure out what they would gain out of helping you. The Shade Lord, well, they could have very well denied your request."

“Hmm...That is true. I do not know why they would accept either. But, to be frank, I find myself tempted to simply push such worries aside. After all, they _did_ agree to help, which means that hope for my solution to the plague has been restored, both to my people, and to me.”

He shakes his head. "They agreed to help, not to see it through. They made you promise a sacrifice - an incredibly loose term. If it's merely _death_ , you should count yourself lucky. For all you know, the sacrifice is something more along the lines of handing over part of your kingdom. The Shade Lord..." He frowns and rubs his face. "I shouldn't be saying these things. You must be worried enough already."

“...You believe the deal to be a trap? A farce?” He picks up the jar, and the Void within it, previously snarling and hissing, immediately goes limp, reversing into a liquid.

"I'm not sure what it is. I merely get the impression there's more going on here than we think." He leans his head against his hands, watching him carefully. "It surely does play dead with you."

“Yes, it does.” There was a heavy pause hanging in the air for a moment, before the King slowly moves to place his hand upon the jar’s lid. “...It would be wise for you to take a step back or two.”

Grimm watches him for a moment, and then steps out of his chair and back a way as instructed. "I'm not entirely sure this is the brightest idea out there, Pale King...."

“Perhaps not. But it’s certainly the fastest way to prove your hypothesis.” He unscrews the lid and opens it, placing it on the counter. The Void remains motionless, completely lacking in focus or form. He slowly sticks his hand over the open jar, but nothing happens. His eyes narrow. “Hmm...” He slowly cups two of his hands together, and begins to tip the jar, letting the Void begin to pool into his hands.

"King...." Grimm can't help but shift where he stands, frowning as the ooze fills his friend's hands.

Nothing happens. The darkness doesn’t reach out to ensnare his arm, it doesn’t lunge to corrupt his body or to snap his neck or whatever it does to purge any mortal that nears it. It doesn’t even pool between his fingers, it just...holds itself together, keeps it still, congealing into a mass of blackness that balances itself on the tips of the King’s claws.

He watches for a few moments longer before his worry takes over. "Alright, I think that proves your point. Jar, please."

The King says nothing in response, merely staring down at his cupped hands. He never actually _felt_ what the Void was like before. It felt… cold, but at the same time, not. Like the chill one got when touching a stream of water but then acclimated to the temperature, to the point where the cold didn’t really _feel_ cold anymore. It didn’t feel wet either, or at least he thinks it doesn’t feel wet. There was a strange sort of moisture against his fingers, but it felt off, strange, almost as if the feeling of wetness on his claws would dissipate the moment he stopped touching the inky black surface. He can’t help but bring up a final hand to stroke over the surface of the strange bubble that had formed, fascinated with how the composition didn’t even seem to ripple or show any sign of liquidity despite physically not being solid in any way. “..Incredible...”

"Pale King." He shifts more at the sight. He knew he was the scientific type. He took notes on every little detail. But Grimm would never be comfortable in the same room as an open puddle of Void, and the fact that one of his allies was holding it wouldn't change a single thing about that.

He doesn’t answer. He slowly places a claw against the surface of the Void bubble and begins to push down, watching with abject awe as the surface bends inward, with visible restraint to breaking, as if it was mimicking the surface of skin. He pushes down harder, harder, before finally the film breaks and his claw plunges into the bubble with a soft _plop_ , slight trails of black ichor leaking free of the  hole his finger made. “...A mimicry of flesh...Is it replicating the feeling of my skin? Is it trying to assimilate to whatever holds it?”

Grimm winces at the sight. "Could be anything. But it's probably safest in its jar, wouldn't you think?" He'd march over and force it back into the jar if he could, but the last thing he’d want is the Void lashing out at the King while he was literally holding it in the palm of his hands.

“Hm?” He looks back up, as if just now hearing Grimm’s voice.

"It should... you should probably put it back now," he says slowly. "We know it won't hurt you."

“Hmm...Very well.” He picks up the jar again, only to blink as the Void flows out of his hands, rippling through the air like suspended water, before pooling right back into the jar. He stands there, stunned for a moment, not moving.

Grimm's own eyes widen at the sight, his jaw hanging. Did it... did the Void really... return to the jar... on its own? He blinks. "Well. That's... definitely a thing now. Um."

“...Indeed...” He slowly screws the jar back onto the lid, and sets it down. It clings to the glass where his hand is touching it, but as he pulls it away, it goes dormant.

Grimm slowly creeps back toward the desk. "That is... mildly unsettling. Hm."

“..Would it alarm you to know that I believe otherwise?”

"Maybe somewhat, but you've always been the one to have strange ideas about things, haven't you?" He gets behind his chair, still watching the Void for any movement. "Hm. You'll have plenty of time to study it."

“I suppose so, should this plan of using nightmares works.” He pauses for a moment, remembering his dream from last night, and his claws clench slightly, unsure how exactly to do what the Nightmare King asked of him. “..I...I need to talk to you about something.”

"You had a weird dream didn't you?" His eyes flick to the King and something apologetic comes over him. "I'm terribly sorry about that. I felt him slink off when I fell asleep. I hope he wasn't too terrible."

He blinks at that, and for a moment, the King is quiet. He then shakes his head. “There were a few moments of idle threats..” He can’t help but blush slightly, remembering the almost tender act of the Nightmare King cradling his chin, and coughs into his fist in an effort to shake off his flustered thoughts. “But, other than that, he boded no harm to me at all. I take it he is...the Heart?”

"Yes, that's... one way of looking at it." He leans on the back of his chair and trills his fingers. "Somewhat more accurately, they are the culmination of all my past selves as well as the door to the power of the Heart. It's difficult to explain precisely."

“I see...Well, he seemed very protective of himself. Himself and you and...Enkay.” He looks off to the side. “He said he even considered killing me once or twice, if memory serves right.”

He tenses slightly and looks away. "He... the protectiveness makes sense. Threatening you..." He rubs his face and exhales. "Hopefully it was just to make it a nightmare. Not that that excuses it, but, well, an empty threat is better than a real one. Did he say anything else?"

“..He said he needed to discuss a more urgent matter with me. But I needed to find a way to speak with him more clearly, without the threat of the Heart possibly causing harm to my body.”

He blinks and straightens for a moment, and then turns to him and grabs his face. He tilts his head side to side, up and down, bending to peer into his eyes. "You don't... seem injured in any way...."

He can’t help but jolt slightly at the sudden sensation of Grimm’s hands upon his face, eyes growing wide with surprise. His gaze locks with that of those bright, crimson pupils, narrowed with a look of mild intensity, of concern, so very close to his face, and all the sudden images that his wife so viciously thrust into his brain have increased ten fold, and before he could even process it, his cheeks began to burn, very, _very_ hard. In the back of his mind he swears he can hear her cackling and snorting like a banshee. 

“...Uh...Grimm...P-Please let go..”

"Hm? Oh, sorry." He lets go of him and pulls back, skillfully ignoring the flush creeping over his carapace. "I keep forgetting others can't stay so close to the Heart. Not exactly hospitable."

The King turns away to cough into his sleeve, trying to dismiss the stupid, stupid burning sensation that seems to have cemented itself into his face, silently screaming all the curse words he can think of in his head, which only seems to make his Root’s cacophonous laughter even louder. He swears he can actually _hear_ it, even from the bottom floor of the Palace. He blinks, somewhat registering Grimm’s words, and shakes his head to try and regain himself. “Er..Yes, I suppose so. Luckily, I believe the Seer knows a way to aid in the Nightmare King’s request. It’s a...spell. A ritual of sorts.”

"A ritual?" He perks up a little, blinking at the thought. "Hmm. You'd have to open the mind for that, and invite us in. Is this Seer skilled in dreams and nightmares?"

“Indeed. She’s been living in the caverns of the Resting Grounds for as long as Hallownest existed. She..” He goes quiet for a moment. “..She was one of Radiance’s moths.”

Grimm goes still, staring at the King for a long, long moment. There's a tenseness in his body and a reflexive distrust in his eyes, but he coughs and they seem to disappear in an instance. "Al-alright. If you trust her, then... I'll trust you."

The King stands there for a moment, before letting out a soft sigh. “Very well.”

There's a small moment of awkward silence, and then Grimm inhales sharply, walking forward with a finger pointed up. "Well, no time like the present, dear King! We've got a lot on our plate today and you're meeting my Troupe today on top of it. Dillydallying won't help anything!"

The King blinks, his spine straightening from the sudden outburst of mild yelling, moving to the side as Grimm walked toward the door, noticing his stiff posture, his almost too-loud voice. He was clearly trying to force himself to be chipper in this moment. “Are you alright?”

"Of course I am." He waves the question aside, almost to the door. "Now, where is your kitchen? I'm absolutely _starving_." He disappears around the corner.

“You-..Oh for Gods sake...” He quickly follows after him. “Don’t you dare go and scare the chefs!”

“No promises!"

••• 

The room was wet, infuriatingly so, and no matter how many times he attempted to patch up the holes in the leaky, worn down roof, they always ended up giving way, leaving him to remain curled up in the driest corner he could find, hissing as he feels the dirty lukewarm water starting to snake beneath his clothes to reach his shell beneath. It still hurt to breathe, hurt to even move, no matter how many times they attempted to ease his pain, and more often than not, he had to hold back the screams, lest someone be drawn to his location, blood still caking the fabric he wore upon his skin, the wound still bubbling and bleeding beneath the fragile scabs that had begun to form. He tried to ease his mind through sleep, shutting his eyes tight in hopes the darkness would come to drain his body of the pain, but all that would come was nothing more than the heat, bright, never ending, scalding to his weakened carapace and leaving his dreams bubbling and boiling beneath it’s awful gaze like a dying corpse left out in the sun. More often than not, he awoke in a dizzying sweat, his heart feeling fuzzy and weak, barely beating, and when he attempted to cough out the pressure weighing his chest down, all that would come up would be faint white bile, tinted with a hue that he, with his hazy vision, could not see. If it wasn’t for the sounds of his own breathing or the feeling of the disgusting rain upon his skin, he would’ve thought he was dying.

He needed to do more. He needed more done for him. His injuries weren't healing properly, at least, he assumed they weren't. A proper healer would be able to sew his shell back together, but there wasn't any nearby, and much less one willing to go anywhere near his location. Even the few bugs that had agreed to help him were nervous. He couldn't be sure what about. But he was sure that if he could do _something_ those doubts would vanish. He can’t help but growl to himself, his voice despicably hoarse and gravelly, even as he spoke into the darkness of the room, trying to ignore the pungent scent of the husk’s blood, of the infectious pus, still reeking through the air despite the body having been killed and disposed off days (Hours? Minutes?) ago. His hand was clasped over the most major wound, over the gauze that kept the rest of his shell from falling apart, and even then he could still feel it, throbbing with pain, with heat, sickly and horrid, and his teeth grit with frustration despite his trembling jaw, rage brewing within his flesh like a poison, a drug, and it was doing nothing to take away the bite of his injuries. 

“..Tch...Foolish...I was foolish...An idiot...I see that now...” He clenches his fist, tightening around the gauze despite the pain. "They won't see the truth, and they'll be damned by this infection because of it." He frowns at the thought, a small moment of leftover grief, and he shakes his head. "Damn them, then. We'll find our own path."

“Our own path?"

He couldn't see the voice with how weak he was, but it must have been close. He nods. "They won't accept the solution? We'll keep it to ourselves."

"Not everyone will live."

"Then we'll make sure _we_ live."

There was silence for a moment, and then the voice speaks again. “You know that there is the presence of another here. One not of this kingdom.” 

He grits his teeth again, and he shakes off the haze of heat that flickers over his mind, disorienting his thoughts. “Gh.... Yes... I have... He isn’t of us..... He won’t see the truth...”

"He will be a more pressing threat to us. You can deal with the others here, but him? At the very least, you'd be foolish to take two of them on at once."

“You think I don't-” He cuts himself off with a harsh, wheezing cough as pain flares through his abdomen, and he doubles over, the fit lasting at least for a few rattling seconds before he spits up another foul blob, and he winces heavily, sitting back up against the wall. When he speaks again, his voice is much more quiet. “....I... I know that.... What do you suggest I do? I can’t hide here… Not forever... They’ll find me eventually... They’ll find you too... And then we’ll both be killed...”

"The outsider has a weakness he has hidden. Find it, destroy it, and everything they've planned will crumble to pieces."

Those words cause him to pause, and he can’t help but narrow his eyes slightly, feeling himself beginning to grin. “And once that’s done?”

"Then we... make sure we live. Lower the odds against us. Make them wish they listened."

“Yes.... Yes, that’s it.” He chuckles weakly, and his smile grows, a sickening sense of satisfaction blooming through his chest, warm and leaving him, finally, without pain. “We will make them _fear us_ . And when we’re through with them, there will be nothing in our way. Perfect. Truly _perfect_.”

 

••••

"Are you _absolutely_ sure you want to do this?" Grimm stood in his typical pose, knowing his expression was difficult to read. He was typically difficult to read. Well, when he wanted to be. And now, stuck in an elevator with half a dozen other people, he felt the need to be a little more difficult than he had been already. Not that he didn't trust them, but, well, he knew the risks of becoming entirely public to a kingdom's population. Especially one experiencing so much difficulty. "I didn't see anyone in your City - which is somewhat worrying, I suppose - but above ground, people _will_ notice me. There won't be sheets of rain to hide me."

"I'm fairly certain the rain wouldn't have hidden you from anyone," Dryya muttered.

"You'd be surprised what rain can cover."

"You boiled all water that got within an inch of you."

"Truly? Alas, opposites do not attract." He _tsk_ ed and shook his head.

“If we tell no one, when your nightmares begin to take root within the minds of the people, a panic will surely break out.” The Lady speaks quietly, as if not wanting to disturb the smooth clanking of the elevator’s mechanisms. “That would only make things worse. Akin to fanning the flames, so to speak.”

“Aye, it certainly would.” Ogrim nods in agreement, hunching his shoulders, trying his best to make sure he isn’t squishing anyone with his size. “The infection already has everyone on edge. Best to let them know your presence means them no harm.”

"Hmm." He considers it for a moment. They _are_ right. Nightmares plaguing a kingdom never ends well. "I won't argue that logic. But most people react rather... _negatively_ to my presence. I can tone myself down, but I can't stop the aura I exude anymore than the King can stop his glow or the Queen can stop her orderliness."

“I’m not that orderly, Grimm.” She huffs slightly, before moving a hand up to adjust one of her roots. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

The King couldn’t help but smile slightly at that, though said smile quickly falls back into a soft, almost worried frown. “...I’m sure nothing will come of it. The people will be too concerned with everything else that’s happening. I’ll be sure to explain as much as I can to them.”

"In that case...." He considers it again. It wasn't particularly like him to put so much stock in the less palatable outcomes, but something told him to be vigilant with this. Maybe learning of the Seer was keeping him on edge. He shrugs lightly. "I will follow your lead, dear King."

“Good.” His eyes flick to Quirrel. “Please do stay by the Queen’s side. I do not know the dangers that might be present; the Crossroads have been rather quiet when it comes to its reports.”

"Alright." He nods easily and shifts a little closer to her. He had been fairly quiet most of the trip, though he had been ogling the City's architecture. "Did Monomon base the Archive elevators on these ones? They seem to work the same way."

“I believe so. She was the one who aided me in crafting the blueprints for such architecture.” He tilts his head slightly, as if trying to think back on surely what was a long time ago.

His eyes widen. "You _and_ Monomon worked on the City? Whoa." He blinks. "Everyone is so much older than I thought."

That gets the King to blink, and the Lady can’t help but chuckle slightly in amusement. “How old do you think we are, little one?”

Quirrel shrugs. "I dunno. Maybe a hundred or so. At least, that's what I've always thought about Monomon. It's weird thinking anyone's older than her." He frowns suddenly. "Wait, isn't the City, like, _really_ old? Like, really, _really_ old."

The King nods, a smile growing on his face, heavily amused to say the least. “Indeed. I believe it’s close to...maybe a thousand?”

The Lady nods softly. “That sounds quite close, yes.”

Quirrel squints, frowning harder, eyes darting back and forth like he was trying to solve some complicated mathematical formula. He rocks back on his heels for a moment. "Everyone is _so old_."

Grimm suddenly snorts, covering his face and barely managing to contain his chuckles. Ogrim is biting a lip, and Dryya's lips are twitching.

The King can’t help but smile even wider, and even he starts to giggle a bit, even as he continues to speak. “Well, we _made_ the City, as well as the Kingdom, so we’re actually even older than that. I honestly don’t even know what my age is.” 

The Lady chortles to herself as well, and she even lifts a hand to wipe a tear from her eyes. “Oh, indeed! I’m technically just a branch-off from the body of an even greater tree, so I’m technically both younger than it and also the same age!”

"What?" He glances between them. "I'm confused. Why is time so weird?"

"Oh my." Grimm rubs his forehead, though he still holding back small chuckles. "If you want my advice? Try not to think on it too much. You'll only get a headache."

Ogrim was finally starting to chortle, leaning down slightly to ruffle the top of Quirrel’s head with a hand. “Oho, oh, please don’t ever change, little one.” 

Quirrel splutters and lightly pats at Ogrim's claw, ducking a little bit. "I'm still confused."

The elevator finally halts it’s ascension with a creaking groan, and the King’s smile fades away entirely. The Lady goes quiet, and Dryya moves a hand to her blade. The hulking figure of Hegemol turns toward the elevator, standing alone in the completely silent corridor leading into the Crossroads. He watches them, quiet as ever, and then gives a small bow of his head. Nothing amiss, so far. Ogrim and Dryya nod back, and begin to walk forwards, clearly tense and ready for anything to jump out at them. The air of the Crossroads was somehow even more dismal and treacherous than that of the City; where rain and the murmuring of massive crowds was enough to overpower the lingering weight of dread and depravity, leaving it to linger beneath one’s skin and crawl like the fluttering touch of a feather. Here, where the lack of noise was abundant and all-consuming, the very air seemed to tingle and throb with a thick tension, like a bow string that was about to snap.

"The acoustics of this place would be amazing if the ceiling were more domed." Grimm's voice ruins the silence, and with it he steps out after the Knights. Dryya gives him a sharp look and Ogrim tenses. He raises a brow and shrugs in return. "It's the truth. I can almost hear the opera music playing."

“We didn’t quite build it that way, if I recall...” The Lady whispers to Grimm in a hushed voice, clearly trying to be quiet in an effort to not distract the Knights. “We simply dig through and into these open caverns. Then we built foundations around the walls.”

He lowers his voice to match hers. "Nothing is ever quite made with its true purpose in mind. And caves have always been somewhat of a passion of mine. So many questions and very few answers, but always a place of protection, if only for the night."

“Well, I suppose the common folk possibly have the same sentiments as you; many who arrive to Hallownest’s gates often end up taking root in the many tunnels of the Crossroads, whether to simply find a permanent home or to find a steady job.” She lifts her head slightly, looking out into the distance. “...Though it is... remarkably more quiet...”

"There's more of Her here. I can feel it." He exhales lightly, following her gaze and glancing between the Knights in front of them. "Closer to the surface too. Doesn't bode well."

“You don’t think...” The Lady trails off, and her expression turns more haunted. “The guards would have...” 

The King closes his eyes, still keeping a steady walking pace, his wings fluttering slightly as his carapace takes on a more ethereal shine. His senses stretch, stretch, more and more with each passing second, and for a moment, his claws clench. All he could sense was _Her_ , clinging to their lives, their souls, putrid and vile, a foul pestilence that was stuck to their minds like a tumor that stitches itself to the flesh. Many of Her victims laid dormant, dead, Her essence still nestling away in their corpses, feasting on what remains in the nothingness, while others were mere ghosts, the vaguest hints of her corruption marring their thoughts, their dreams, a sickness that had yet to settle in.  The ones that were pure, their souls still bright and unblemished, were huddled together, in thick clusters or entire crowds, their fear, their desperation, their hope for survival, practically palpable in the air, and it was enough to make the King’s stomach twist. His eyes open back up as his senses slowly meld back into himself, and he sighs. “There are those still untouched by the plague. They are many, but the infection claims more and more.”

A small hand touches the King's hand and Quirrel shifts a little closer to him. "Are we going to see more of them before we get to Monomon?"

The King pauses slightly, not expecting the touch, and for a moment, he says nothing, before glancing at Quirrel out of the corner of his eye. “Perhaps... I do not truly know. I did not sense any nearby, but...” He trails off for a moment, before he attempts to speak again. “We won’t let them near you.”

"Alright." He brings his other hand to the King's wrist, shuffling a touch closer and almost hugging his hand for comfort.

"I'm not seeing anything," Grimm murmured, "which is good. I should be able to see them before you, dear King."

“Thank you, Grimm.” The King looks forwards, slowly bringing himself to curl a hand around Quirrel’s own, trying to do what little he can to bring the child some meager comfort. He swears he can feel the boy trembling.

"I wonder how my Troupe has been doing. It hasn't been too long, but I'm sure at least one of them noticed the tremors." Grimm hums lightly. "Now that I think about it, they're probably more concerned with the sudden outpouring of people on the surface."

“Troupe...” The Lady tilts her head slightly. “You changed the name?”

"Oh, yes, I suppose I did. _Vermillion Mayhem_ ... That wasn't mine. That was his." He shrugs lightly. "We're much more of a traveling act, so I figured Troupe was about the right word for it. And given my name, and a few certain gimmicks of ours, the full title would be _The Grimm Troupe_." He smirks. "A little play on words there."

“Huh...” The Lady goes silent for a moment or two. “What kind of changes have you made there, exactly? From what I remember, it was a place of plays, performances, dances, the fine arts, that sort of thing.”

"Arts, dancers - we still have those. We're still performance heavy, though plays are... well, we're a bit short on actors as of recent. And playwrights." He hums, tilting his head. "We're somewhat more horror inclined. Depends on where we're touring though, and who our guests are."

That gets the King to turn his head, and he blinks, looking quite shocked, as well as confused. “H-Horror? What even is that?”

Dryya is the first to speak up, her sword still drawn. “It is a name for a specific type of entertainment, My King. It is meant for those who tend to gain an adrenaline rush upon being purposefully scared or startled.”

Grimm chuckles, his grin widening. "Ooh, I hadn't expected any of the King's Knights to know about horror as a genre. I'm intrigued."

"Technically, I'm the Queen's Knight." She scans ahead of her. "But there are a few books I've read on it. For tactical reasons of course."

That gets Ogrim to giggle, and a grin grows on his face, breaking his serious aura. “Heheh...Is it because of the gho-“

“Say one more word and I will rip your tongue out and force you to eat it.” 

Hegemol audibly stifles his laughter.

"Oh, have you all met a ghost? I'm surprised. Usually they're rather shy or disoriented. They make wonderful choir members though." Grimm chuckles again, and it comes off a touch more insidious than before.

Dryya’s face seems to drain of color, and she tightens her grip on her sword to the point where her knuckles creak. “Silence, demon. You silence your wicked lies right now.”

"Most of them are absolutely harmless. You have nothing to fear from them, I swear. And if you come to the Troupe, you might be able to meet a few."

“Ohoho, oh, I don’t think our dear Dryya could handle it.” Ogrim snickers to himself. 

Dryya, visibly trying to compose herself, momentarily takes a deep breath. “...Yes, I agree... Someone would surely be stabbed.”

"Well, so long as you don't stab anyone _living_ I think we'll all be fine." He chuckles a little. "The ghosts won't mind it, but my other staff will."

It was then that Hegemol took on a more lax stance with his mace, though only slightly, and he holds up a hand to the group behind him, making a quick gesture. Dryya sheathes her sword while Ogrim lowers his claws, Hegemol looking back towards the King. “We’re approaching the first marketplace. I can see a few people up ahead. Keep the kid close.”

Quirrel huddles closer to the King, though he seems to relax. "We're close to the surface, then? I've never been up there before."

"I think you'll like it for how different it is." The Queen smiles down at him. "And you'll be with Monomon again."

"I can't wait to see her." He almost seems to pout, though if it's from concern for her well being or frustration at how long they've taken, it's hard to tell.

“I’m sure she’ll be glad to see you as well.” The King nods softly, but straightens his back the moment the light of the lumafly street lamps begin to grow closer and closer, until they’ve finally exited the narrow walkway and into the actual market. It was relatively quiet, with only a few shops and stands still actually being open, the streets close to being almost entirely empty aside from the guards patrolling the roads, as well as a few bugs that were still keen on shopping and chatting with the shopkeepers, at least a few dozen or so. All commotion or bustle stopped the moment Hegemol walked out of the tunnel, and the crowd quickly began to part, hushed whispers filling the air, along with wide-eyed staring.

The citizens in this part of the Kingdom were even less accustomed to visits from the Royal Knights, much less the King and Queen. They were fairly out of the way. Most of them would travel to the City to see the rulers if word got out of their travels, but given the circumstances... Well, they had been quite preoccupied. But definitely not preoccupied enough to consider the lanky, red eyed being and the child clutching the King's very hand as anything normal.

The King and Queen were here on business. What business would involve three of the best guards in the entirety of Hallownest, a child, and a very strange foreigner? They weren't about to ask, but ideas were already formulating. The King can hear the whispers, feel the eyes staring over his shell with looks of shock and awe, and he can’t help himself when he slowly brings himself to a stop and turns to face the crowd closest to him, letting his wings spread, carefully, so as to not accidentally brush Quirrel. The whispers grow silent. 

He sees the flash of red in the corner of his eye, a familiar sight in Grimm’s visage, and he turns his head, trying to keep his voice low. “...Would you wish to explain yourself? Or shall I?”

"These are your people. I think they'd rather hear from you than from a newcomer." He grins lightly. "That and I'm curious as to what you'll say."

The King nods softly and looks back towards the crowd, who have all gone deathly silent in hopes to hear his words. He clears his throat for a moment before finally letting himself speak. “...Before I begin, are there any of you in need of medical attention? Any broken shells? Limbs? Bites or wounds that you may have suffered from possible infected? Please let me know; I wish to give aid.” He lets one of his hands glow, claws sparkling in the bright light of his own magic.

There's a short intake of breath as the crowd stares at his hand, and then stunned silence. One of the merchants suddenly darts off into their shop and the rest of the crowd shifts, people either moving further back or hesitantly moving forward. Two bugs walk closer, minor injuries on their arms or legs. The King can’t help but feel his heart skip a beat slightly upon seeing the bloody, exposed wounds on the first citizen’s arm, looking as if they had been bitten at least twice, possibly even three times. He slowly steps forward, placing his palm over the first wound, letting his magic slowly pulse over the broken shell, his carapace glowing just a touch brighter as he does so. “Thank you...May I ask how you got such wounds?”

"One of 'em tried to get into the house. Broke down the door. I was protecting my boys. You'll want to check Jan's kid next, though. Broke her leg runnin' from 'em. She's got a good spirit, but the last thing she needs is a bum leg."

As if on cue, the merchant who had run off burst back out through the shop, carrying a young bug only a little older than Quirrel in her arms.

"That's her. The two of them have been pretty shaken up by this."

The King lifts his head to watch the merchant as they move to shove themselves through the crowd, to which many of them scatter, still left speechless by the sight in front of them. He nods softly to the beetle, his hands slowly falling away from her arm to reveal the bite wounds to be completely healed over. “There you are.... Please, do try to be more careful. And I wish you and your children the best.”

"Thank you, my King." She bows her head slightly and steps back, gesturing for the other bugs waiting beside her to do the same as Jan rushed toward the King.

"My daughter!" She stopped in front of him, huffing slightly and holding the child up slightly. "She broke her leg in the last raid. I think it got infected last night, I-"

"I'm alright, mom. Just tired."

"Don't you dare fall asleep right now, Wanda."

"I'm not. Geez."

The King tries to keep himself from stepping back, seeing as how the distressed mother nearly runs herself right into him, instead, merely nodding patiently, eyes flicking down towards her leg to take a look at the damages. “I see...” His eyes momentarily flash white, extending his senses just a touch, and though he feels no present infection in the daughter’s soul, he can already feel the looming presence of Her, creeping near the mind of this poor, sleepy girl. His eyes narrow slightly, before he blinks back into himself, his hands moving to cradle the broken limb. “Your daughter will be alright, do not worry.” His hands begin to glow, and as he feels the wound slowly heal, he desperately, inwardly prays that the solution he and Grimm have made will be enough to stave off the infection from claiming yet another innocent, at least for now.

Jan relaxes as soon as the light begins shining again, and murmurs her thanks over and over again. Wanda shifts a little, saying something about a weird tingling feeling, and shifts a bit to watch him work. Her mother kisses her forehead. The King soon pulls his hands away once the wound has been fully healed, lifting his head to gaze upon the final bug, who seems to have sustained a rather gruesome injury to their eye, as it was covered in cloth. He also was surprised to see that the injured bug was one of the guards that was just moments ago standing stiff, standing ready, at the very edges of the crowd to make sure that no infected had a chance to rush at the Knights. He frowns softly. “...Remove your helmet, please. Tell me your name.”

He shifts, then carefully takes the helmet off and tucks it under his arm.   There was more bandaging wrapping around his head, and some blood was starting to seep through near his temple. "Ricket, sir. It's a pleasure having you up here."

“Ricket...” He nods softly, slowly moving to place a hand over the bandages, seeking to heal the less grievous wounds first. “Ricket, I give you my thanks for protecting my people.” He pauses for a moment before letting his hand finally heal over the guard’s eye. “If you wish, I would like to give a blessing to your blade.”

He swallows roughly, holding still for him with a control even trained soldiers typically lacked. "A blessing? What do you mean?" He doesn't move his gaze, but notes in his peripheries the Knights' weapons.

“A small enchantment. For example, a blade that never dulls or breaks. A sword that will never be lost and always returns to your hand.”

"That does sound pretty nice." He blinks and winces slightly. "Erk. There's something in my eye, I think."

That gets the King to blink, and he snatches his hand back, as if he had somehow wounded the man. “..Do you mind if I remove the bandages to take a look?”

“No, no, not at all.”

The King slowly manages to unwrap the bandages that were around the guard’s eye, wincing ever so slightly at the dark, dried blood that fell away with the gauze. “I suspect you gained this injury from an infected? Can you see anything out of the eye? Where exactly does it hurt?”

"It doesn't... hurt much. More like something's poking it." He blinks a few times on instinct. "I can't see. Maybe it's just dried blood? Wouldn't be the first time."

The King hums softly, his own eyes narrowing slightly. “How strange...”

A small cough comes from behind the King and the foreign bug glances between the two of them before approaching. "I, er, believe I may be able to help with this actually."

The King looks over to see Grimm, and he blinks softly. “How so?”

"Most people think fire can only do harm, but it can also heal, in a manner of speaking. I can also make it a touch more physical, which helps with precise... movements." He looks over the guard's eye. "I can clear it out if you give me a moment."

Ricket stares at him. "Did... you just say 'fire?'"

"Completely harmless, I assure you."

The King stares for a moment, jaw open and preparing to protest, until he feels the gazes of the crowd grow a little more weary, a little more scared and confused, at the sight of Grimm, and he slowly brings himself to nod. “Very well...” He faces Ricket and nods. “Do not worry, he means well.”

"Right. Yeah."

Grimm cups a hand in front of him, letting his fire fill it, and held it toward Ricket as the guard shifted. "Go ahead and touch it. You won't burn."

"Erm..." He glances at the King, then back at Grimm's hand, and gingerly pokes at the fire with his nondominant hand. He winces, then frowns. He sticks his finger back into the flame. "Huh."

"I was weirded out when it happened the first time too." Grimm smiled gently and rolled the fire into a ball between his fingertips as the guard pulled his hand away. "There shouldn't be any heat, so tell me if you feel any, alright?"

The King hears the muttering and shifting of the crowd, the unease and fear slowly shifting as they see the fire not burning Ricket’s fingers. He can’t help but feel a slow smile creep onto his face.

"I'll do that." Ricket nods slowly, still looking slightly unsure.

"Good. Now, just tilt your head back a little... Ah, good, yes. Now I'll just...." Grimm lifts the ball of fire to his eye, holding it just an inch above and letting it sink into his eye.

"...Oh. _Oh_. That feels weird."

"Bad weird?"

"Er, no, actually. Just weird."

"Heh. Good. Means it's working."

“I do wonder how exactly you came up with this method of medical care, Grimm. It certainly is...unorthodox.” The King tilts his head slightly.

"Oh, well, people tend to get hurt playing with real fire. But, yes, it isn't exactly a method that's been used in a while." He frowns for a moment, letting his fire wash more generally over Ricket's eye. "I think that should be all of it. Felt mostly like dried blood." He pulls the fire away, shaking his hand to put it out. "How does it feel?"

"Still can't see, but I can blink." He grins, relaxing ever so slightly. "Thank you. Both of you."

“It’s the least we can do. I do not know all that you and your companions may have suffered, but do know that your pain is not in waste.” The King finally turns to face the crowd and gestures to Grimm. “This... is Grimm, the leader of the Grimm Troupe. Some of you may know that title. Some of you may not. His other title... I’m sure that many of you _do_ know.” He pauses for a moment before continuing. “...This... is the Nightmare King.”

Grimm bows toward them as the murmurs start up again. A few of them were confused, but a few were clearly concerned. He straightens. "I am merely here to lend aid in your time of need. I know I may seem somewhat daunting to a few of you, but I promise that I am only here to help."

"If you're the King of Nightmares..." A tall bug shifts, crossing his arms as eyes turn toward him. "Doesn't that mean you can stop the nightmares? The ones everyone has been having? Well... the ones who die, I guess. Can't you just stop them?"

He straightens, eyeing him innocently enough, though he couldn’t be sure it translated properly. "I... wish it were that simple, but what has been plaguing you has not necessarily been nightmares, but dreams. That's why it's difficult to fight them. But, hopefully, soon you won't have to fight as much."

“Please, know that he is not here to cause harm or to cause mischief. I trust him, and I invite you to put that same trust you have in me, in him, as well.” The King folds his hands back together, heart beating just a touch faster, unsure of what his people would do.

Ricket looks over his shoulder and nods at the crowd. "He means well, and if the King trusts him, then so do I."

A few heads nod in agreement. Jan grins from where she holds her daughter. Ricket turns back to the two Kings.

"You, uh, you don't have to worry about enchanting my blade right now." He offers a gentle smile. "You seem like you're on your way somewhere. We'll be fine, at least until nightfall. That's when they've been coming, for whatever reason. I would have sent word, but they went for the guard station the first night."

“The guard station...” He frowns softly before nodding. “Thank you.” He turns to face the crowd again, his back straightening. “I must bid you farewell for now. I wish you all good luck, and please, try to stay safe, and protect each other. In such trying times, that is all one can do.”

The crowd nods, murmuring thanks and parting to create a path for them. Some of them return to their shops to have something to lean on as they watch them. Ricket nods back to the King before stepping aside. The King relaxes, his wings folding back in, before turning to continue to walk, letting out a heavy sigh as he does so, his expression dipping into something more melancholic. “...This needs to end...”

"It will. Even if it's the last thing we do." Grimm kept his face carefully neutral as they walked past the remaining citizens, hands tucked within his cloak.

“That is something we agree on, demon.” Dryya mutters softly to herself.

"I'm really not a demon, but you aren't exactly the first to say that, so I'll let it slide."

“Hmph.” She looks aside, and for a moment, all is silent.

"How much further until we reach the surface?“We just need to take the main elevator. Hopefully the Mask Maker is able to deal with the newcomers up there and keep them away from the patients from the Archives.” The Lady looks a tad nervous for a moment, her gentle blue eyes looking downwards.

"I'm sure they'll all be fine." Grimm shrugs. "If anything, people passing through would want to help rather than make trouble. Quite a few healers out in the Wastes, actually."

“I sure hope you’re right. Having the plague somehow get onto the surface would just be downright _terrible_.” Ogrim shivers to himself in horror.

"If it wanted to reach the surface, it would have by now. I don't think you have anything to worry about."

“You certainly seem optimistic considering the situation we’re in. I know you said that we have a way to buy time, but until that time is bought... we’re already running on low supply as is.” Hegemol pipes up from the front, talking softly even as the crowd has long since dispersed.

Grimm raises a brow, blinking at the Knight's back. "Pessimism leads to nihilism which leads to defeat. Optimism leads to hope, and dare I say you all need as much of that as you can get."

“Hmph... I suppose that’s true.” He sighs for a moment. “Guess all of this stuff has just been getting to my head a little. That, and the lack of sleep.”

"You'll all be able to sleep soon. It won't take long to set the torches, and then you'll be able to sleep in the comfort of my nightmares." He grins widely. "Don't worry. I'll make sure they don't bite."

“Your nightmares can bite people?” Quirrel looks up at him, now holding onto the Queen’s hand.

"Metaphorically, young one." He chuckles a little. "None of it will harm anyone. I promise."

“Oh... Ok.” He pauses, then frowns. “Wait, you said that... the dreams cause people to die... Is the infection being caused by dreams? Is that why Monomon didn’t want me to go to sleep?”

Grimm’s grin softens. “In a manner of speaking, yes. It’s a little more complicated than that, but, yes.” 

“I...How is that even possible?” He frowns even harder, looking immensely puzzled. “Infections are diseases. They’re illnesses caused by outside threats to the body, not... not by dreams. Not like that.”

"It's difficult to explain, admittedly. Monomon would probably know how to word it better than I do."

“Well... I know what to ask her when I see her up on the surface then.”

 

••••

The elevator to the surface opened on a long, wide hall built in the same elegant style as the City of Tears, though arguably more modest. Empty chairs lined the walls, glass bubbles filled with lumaflies hung from above, and a desk next to the elevator lay vacant. Voices came from the other end of the hall, near a doorway that had been held open for close to a millennia. The faces belonging to those voices clustered around a large desk cluttered with piles and piles of expertly crafted masks, talking to someone who was almost entirely obscured by their own stock. Long, thin arms gestured toward the group from behind the curtains of masks, the movements delicate and soft, almost placating. The click of the elevator doors opening echoes through the hall, and the bug's movements stutter. A hand draws away from view, and a hanging set of masks shifts under one claw. The knuckles of the other hand rap against the desk's surface, and the bugs who had started to turn swivel their heads back to the Mask Maker.

"Our King is here." The words were soft, but just enough to carry down the empty hall. "It would be best to avert your gaze."

The Knights themselves all huddle around the King in a protective circle, Dryya holding up her shield while Ogrim and Hegemol try to remain shoulder-to-shoulder as best they can, while the King himself ducks his head, keeping his shoulders hunched. He tried not to focus on the souls that hovered around him, the pockets of light contained within their flesh, his hands clenching and his eyes kept firmly to the ground.

"What's going on?" Quirrel looks up at the White Lady and Grimm as the Knights move into position.

"The people up ahead don't have masks yet," the Queen says easily, resting a hand on his shoulder. "His aura can be... rather powerful for those with bare faces."

"I don't get it."

"Godly magic." Grimm raises a brow, looking surprised despite his words. "Mortals aren't the best at facing it. The masks work as a protective mechanism to lessen the more passive effects of our beings."

"Passive effects?" He frowns up at him.

The Queen squeezes his shoulder reassuringly. "We'll explain more later, but for now, let's try and find somewhere with fewer prying eyes."

There were a few outcries from the crowd, that of anger or sadness, he did not know, but thankfully, none seemed to lay their eyes upon his visage, even though he could feel their gazes just barely brushing by, their souls yearning, _aching_ to even catch a glimpse of his real form, as if it would kill them if they didn’t. He grits his teeth slightly, and he only relaxes himself the second he feels their desperate eyes slide away from his view. They walk onto a cobblestone path flanked by buildings alternately marked as storefronts and small homes. Unmasked bugs wander between a few of them, but the majority of them have some kind of mask over their faces or slung around their necks. Beyond the storefronts, tents and small enclosures were staked into mostly flat ground. A few of the larger tents were marked as medical centers, and seemed to be the busiest of them all.

"So," Grimm exhaled, "where do we start?"

“Perhaps we should split up? It would be easier to deal with more patients if we didn’t all travel together in one group. Though I do think at least one of you should stay with Grimm to make sure he isn’t...falsely accused of anything.” The Queen glances at him, before quickly looking away.

"Falsely accused? With this face?" He blinks innocently then laughs. "Don't worry about your words. As I've said before, most other kingdoms aren't exactly welcoming to my Troupe and I. It wouldn't be the first time someone's accused me of being in another's domain for less than virtuous reasons. That being said, I can promise you that I’ll be fine."

“You’re sure you can handle yourself, Grimm?” The King tilts his head slightly. “The people might be a little hostile towards your presence.”

"I'll be fine, I promise. You'll probably attract quite a bit more attention anyways."

"Shouldn't we stay together, though?" Quirrel shifts. "Aren't we all trying to find Monomon?"

The King goes to respond, but pauses, before moving to hold out his hand. “Here. Let’s find Monomon together. The others need to go help the patients.”

"Or," Grimm says slowly, "I could take him to find Monomon. I may be able to heal, but it's not as fast as yours, nor am I as skilled in it. And fire tends to scare people."

The King pauses, then retracts his hand, sighing before he nods. “Yes, yes, of course.” He turns to face Grimm. “No doubt she’s in her...submersible if she’s up on the surface. You’ll know it when you see it. You’ll probably _hear_ it before you see it, actually.”

He raises a brow. "Sounds intriguing. Anything else I should know? Especially since she still thinks I'm, er, dead?"

“She might try to hug you, or strangle you, depending on how stressed she is. She tends to soak in acidic liquids that’s strong enough to eat through metal, so I advise you watch out.”

"Ah, pleasant." He shifts.

"She's gotten better with the acid," Quirrel said. "But, yeah, she might strangle you a bit."

"Well, that aside, will we meet anywhere specific for when we head to my Troupe?"

“Hmm...” His eyes scan around, until they fall upon a towering cliff, one that went so tall that the King could almost not see the top. He knew what laid at it’s edge, and though it made his heart clench, he knew it would be the best he could do. “...The base of that cliff. That’s our meeting point.”

Grimm follows his gaze, noting the path leading to the cliff's base and instinctively scanning over the cliff in its entirety. As his eyes reach the top, he goes still. "Oh. _That_ cliff."

The King is silent, but the wave of melancholy that washes over him causes his shoulders to droop. “...Yes...”

Grimm turns back to him and tries for a smile. "Alright. I'll meet you all there, and hopefully with as few acid burns as possible."

“Indeed.” The King nods, then turns to Dryya. “Dryya, stay with the Queen, please.” His gaze shifts to Ogrim. “Ogrim, please make sure that the unmasked do not approach any infected.” Finally, to Hegemol. “Hegemol, if you see any infected break free or attempt to rush towards anyone...”

"Understood." The three nod, and Ogrim and Hegemol walk off to find a more suitable position for their respective tasks.

Grimm watches them for a moment, and then turns to Quirrel. "How do you feel about riding my shoulders? You might get a better view of things from higher up."

"And I don't have to walk anymore. Yes, please."

Grimm chuckles and kneels down for him. "I appreciate your honesty."

The King can’t help but smile at that, before turning to walk toward one of the bigger, unguarded tents, taking a deep breath as he does so, letting his soul thrum through his fingers. A few citizens turn toward him as he walks among the tents, most too shocked and awed to say or do anything. A small murmur starts to grow, but he makes it to the tent before anyone could call out to him or start praying. The smell of blood, of wounds, of gauze and disinfectant, hits him in the face the moment he opens the flaps of the tent, and he just barely has enough time to catch his breath before he realizes _why_. There were at least five patients, all of them laying down on cots, large leather straps tethering them to the beds, bandages and bloodied gauze wrapped around their heads, their limbs, their torsos. None of them were awake. They were all asleep.

"Are you absolutely certain we shouldn't-"

"You heard what Monomon said. They're already asleep. We're keeping them that way."

"But they-"

"Look, if you don't like it, then leave and either find another set of patients to look over or complain to Monomon herself. I don't care. Just stop interfering with my work. And get those old wrappings out of here. I can barely see what I'm doing."

"Y-yes..." A small bug pulls a tray overflowing with bloodied bandages away from a patient in the far corner of the room, and turns to discard them. Two steps in, they notice the King hovering near the entrance and gasp, dropping the tray in a clatter onto the ground.

"Wol, I swear-"

"The King."

The other bug raises his head and stares at Wol, and then looks over his shoulder toward the doorway. A scarred eye peers at the King for a solid minute before turning back to the patient in front of him. "Good. Invite him in and pick up the bandages you dropped."

The King finds himself practically frozen for a moment under that scarred gaze, not out of fear or dread, but out of simple shock of who, or rather, _what_ was currently examining one of the bloodied bodies, still asleep upon the cot. A mantis, one that bore the resemblance of those deep in the fungal forests, ones that were known to be wary of his kingdom, let alone his rule. He narrows his eyes for a moment before slowly walking over to the bug, his hands folded, his posture straight. “...Greetings. And you are...?”

"Podzol," he mutters, sewing stitches into the bug before him. Wol shifts where they stand, unsure of whether to properly welcome the King, and then decides to merely pick up the bandages from the floor and walk them to a bucket off to the side. "Resident head of medical, or whatever it was Monomon said. I'm surprised to see you so far away from your Palace."

“I came to heal and bring aid to the wounded that were injured during the earthquake.” He goes quiet for a moment. “...Why are these bugs asleep? Are they in critical condition?”

“Two of them were knocked unconscious during the quakes, but the others? Yes. Organ damage, blood loss. That sort of thing." He finishes the last stitch and snips the string. "We normally would try and wake them, especially the other two, but it's not particularly... advisable given the current state of the Kingdom. Excuse me." He walks around the King and to a bowl sitting on top of a crate. He dips his claws into the water and starts cleaning them off.

Wol gingerly steps toward the King, glancing at Podzol a few times and lowering their voice. "He, uh, he may come across a bit standoffish, but he's got a brilliant mind and-"

"And that brilliant mind can hear you, Wol. Weren't you heading out?"

Their face falls. "I, er... sorry, yes. I'll tell Monomon you're here, my King, while I'm with her." They hesitantly walk toward the entrance.

The King watches them go, his brow raised, and sighs softly. “You needn’t be so rude to them. They seem to respect you a great deal.”

"Yes, well, respect only goes so far when the majority of my colleagues consider my work pseudo-science developed off the back of a, what was it, 'barbaric culture.' Yes, incredibly respectful." Podzol grabs a nearby cloth and dries his hands. “Not that Wol says that. But generally speaking.”

“...Erm... Yes, I, uh... suppose that is... rude too.” He clears his throat, feeling a bit of shame rush down his spine and cause his cheeks to heat. He takes a moment to compose himself before speaking again. “..I take it you’re one of Monomon’s students?”

"Student? No. Well... It's complicated." His tone softens ever so slightly at the topic and he turns to face the King. "I've studied in her Archives for a while now, but I've never sat in on her lectures. Reading her texts is usually enough for me, and if I need anything else, then I'd simply go and ask her my questions."

“Really now?” That gets him to blink, his expression turning more thoughtful, lifting a hand to his chin. “Monomon usually only allows scholars or professors to glance through her texts, and even then, only specific ones.... She just... lets you look at the ones you desire to view?”

"Typically." He glances over the occupied beds as if considering something, then shrugs and walks closer to the King. "Since it's a surprise to everyone, I'll just tell you that I engineered a chemical that essentially induces a coma when administered, hence these bugs here. Entirely safe, very few side effects, lasts for a decent amount of time. That was a few years ago. We're using it on the infected bugs now to keep them as... tame as possible."

The King is silent for a moment, his eyes sliding to the bugs that were on the cots, his stomach dropping ever so slightly. The fact that these comatose people could easily wake up to become nothing more than feral savages, twisted by forces that were no longer amidst the living. He quickly pushes his senses outwards, and nearly _recoils_ at the sheer, twisted infection that was pulsing through their souls, damn near corroded right through, like a rotting wound that was consuming the flesh it was born from. His heart picks up slightly, and his eyes snap to Podzol, his voice measured, but shaking with a thinly veiled restraint that one could not place or discern. “...And if this medicine fails? What precautions do you have to make sure these bugs don’t hurt anyone?”

"Well, they haven't so far, but there's also the straps holding them in place. The drug wears off slowly, so when they start waking up, they don't particularly have control over themselves. So long as someone's here to dose them again, everyone should be fine."

The King is silent for a few moments, before he lets out a breath, sagging his shoulders for a moment. “...Forgive me... I...I simply don’t wish for anymore people to get hurt.” He turns to gaze at one of the sleeping husks, hands still folded.

"Of course." He says nothing for a moment, and then crosses his arms. "May I be honest with you, my King?"

“...Yes.”

"There's a lot of people who have been thinking like that, Monomon included. But this?" He gestures to the cots. "It's going to happen whether you find a solution today or tomorrow. I know it's horrible to consider, but it's the fact of the matter. Worrying over it isn't going to help anyone. It's only going to hinder your own progress."

“...Mm..” He nods softly, eyes closing for a moment, considering the words in his mind. “Yes, I’ve...I think I’ve known that for a while, actually.”

"I think a lot of people have known it, but they don't want to admit it."

“Of course not. They don’t want to admit that the situation is nigh hopeless....That their families and friends are dying or being turned into living corpses and there’s nothing the God of Hallownest can do to stop it...”

"Don't sell yourself short, or take all the credit. From what I can tell, you're not doing this entirely on your own. And if anyone knows exactly what's going on, it's you." He taps his arm, looking down at the bug on the table in front of him. "It's another god, isn't it?"

“...Yes. One I had thought dead.”

"Well, they can't fight through comas, if that helps." He shrugs a little. "I'd be out there fighting whatever god it is, but you know what they say. Only gods can kill gods."

“I already _did_ kill Her. But She came back from the dead somehow.” He waves a hand at the husks. “And this is the result, corrupting the minds of my people and infesting them with Her own, turning them into a facsimile of the civilization She could never have.”

"Well, that would explain why they're not entirely _incompetent_ when infected." Podzol catches the King's look and raises a brow. "They don't merely attack on sight. They go for whoever's the most lethal. When the Archive's doors unlocked, they went after the guards. Completely ignored the civilians. If it's not simply an infection, but someone else taking the reins... Answers a few questions I had."

“Hmm... Yes, that does fit. The first infected I had come across...” He pauses for a moment, and his hand drifts to his neck. “...she stabbed me through the throat.”

His arms fall to his side and he stares at him, blinking. "An advisor?"

He nods softly, and he feels his stomach twist, sharply, when the blood and viscera of what happened afterwards had flooded his mind.

"Tch. If I were to launch a psychic contagion into my enemy's kingdom, the last thing I'd want to do is show it to the ruler's face."

“I don’t think She cares about efficiency, Podzol. Gods are very...theatric.”

"You don't seem very theatric to me."

“I’m a King, not a God. There is a difference between the two.”

"You can heal people with magic, you've lived for however many millennia without an ounce of decay, and you glow in the dark like a walking lumafly lamp. Oh, and not to mention the whole people-need-a-mask-to-look-at-you thing. I'm fairly certain that's god levels of power."

The King sighs heavily, and he shakes his head, the dim flicker of irritation dying in his chest the moment it erupted, smothered by the numbness weighing down his heart. “...Yes, I am _technically_ a God. But that’s not what I meant.”

"I guess it's not what I meant either. The theatrics thing." He waves a hand vaguely. "Someone who's thinking straight wouldn't come after you directly. They'd do that later, so you wouldn't have time to recover. You don't show your opponent your entire hand in a game of cards." He pauses for a moment. "Well. Unless you want them to see, I guess."

“Then I assume She wanted me to see what She could do, then.” He pauses as one of the bugs twitches, jolts rather, in the cot, and he goes deathly silent.

"Eugh. You again." Podzol walks to one of her crates and pulls out a syringe of bluish liquid. He walks over to the bug. "Still trying to figure out dosages."

“...I think we should change the subject.” The King looks away, and he looks a tad more wary.

"Whatever you want, my King." He holds an arm down and carefully slides a needle between a chink in the bug's shell. "I'm happy to answer any questions you have. Feel free to offer ideas as well, but I'll tell you what I tell everyone: I don't hold back on critiques."

“....May I ask about the scar over your eye?”

He looks up at him, brow raised and thumb pressing down on the syringe plunger. "Well. I suppose so."

The King’s hands clench a bit beneath his robes. “Forgive me if it is a...sensitive topic. But...It was the first thing I noticed.”

"Oh, no, not at all. Happened years ago. More than a decade? Two? I don't keep track of time well." He pulls the syringe out of the bug's arm. "I simply didn't think you would care about such things. Seems too personal for a King to worry about."

“Hm. A King should care about their people, and I uphold to such a statement. Even ones that are not of the most elite or common.” He frowns slightly. “Though it is odd that I was not made aware that a Mantis had been rehabilitated into our society.”

“‘Rehabilitated’ isn't the word I'd use for it, but..." He exhales. "I was toying with science in the Tribes, one of my experiments went sideways, and they exiled me. I figured if they didn't want me for my knowledge, someone else would. So I went to Monomon. I'm not sure how familiar you are with exiles in Mantis culture..."

“I’m afraid the Mantis Lord’s weren’t keen on sharing all of their cultural customs.”

"Typical. Well. Essentially, there's this whole thing about once you're exile, you aren't supposed to talk about being exiled or whatever." He rolls his eyes. "Never mention the tribe, never talk about customs, blah blah blah. But everyone in Hallownest knows about the Mantis Tribe, so in seeing Monomon, I had to explain things. But since the whole rule is to _not_ tell anyone...." He shrugs broadly. “Well, I was already exiled, so the rules don’t apply to me anymore. That’s how I think about it at least.”

“...They scarred you, didn’t they? To mark you as an outlaw?”

"Not necessarily. I could have just left, but I instead decided to, uh, duel the Lords for my right to stay." He grins ruefully and shakes his head at his own stupidity. "Too prideful to let it go."

The King lets out a small chuckle, and nods, softly. “Ah, I see. Hot blooded in your youth, were you?”

"Most definitely." He laughs a little and rubs his chin. "What, erm, you? How about you?"

The King tilts his head slightly, and he takes a moment to think. “Hmmm....I wasn’t so much hot blooded as I was...eager. Very eager, I was, to take in the world, the people around me, the phenomenon that was civilization. It was all...fascinating.”

"The curious type? No wonder you and Monomon get along so well."

“Indeed. So curious was I, so eager to take in all that I could, that I began to document, to inscribe, every little sensation down to the nearest detail. From the fruits I ate to the temperature of the sky, I wrote it all down, in these notebooks I was able to scavenge.”

"Oh, notebooks? About yay big?" He approximates the size with his hands. "Black and blue covers?"

The King pauses, staring for a moment. “..Yes. How on earth did you know?”

"I... may have found them while sneaking into Monomon's more forbidden section of the Archives." He grins sheepishly.

He feels his heart skip a beat slightly, and he looks away. “...I see...Then I don’t need to tell you of what you’ve found in such books, do I?”

"Not quite, though a few pages were missing and a few others damaged. For something put under lock and key, there were quite a few acid stains on it. Actually, since you're here and we're talking about them..." He wanders over to the crates functioning as tables and clears one of medical equipment before prying it open and retrieving a rectangle of folded cloth. He turns back to him and holds it out. "They were practically the only things I managed to grab before everything went sideways."

The King steps back as soon as he sees the stained, shriveled copy of the book, only taking it after a moment of silence has passed. “...Why give this to me?”

"It's yours." He shrugs. "Only fair you choose where it goes. I know I'd want any of my texts sent back to me if I misplaced them."

There was a pause, and the King turns his back to Podzol, fingers slightly shaking as he slowly pries open the first page, and though the metallic tang of acid reeks within the parchment, the smell of ink and incense is still barely detected beneath, and he finds himself taking a deep breath. The first page that greets his sight is one that was akin to a diary entry, and he finds himself reading it raptly, the words he had once thought of arising in his mind like a dust-caked artifact, left to sit upon a forgotten shelf.

"The first few pages almost made me think it was some kind of fiction book," Podzol admitted, watching him. "But then the anatomical sketches.... You were amazingly thorough. And almost everyone thinks your just some law-making god-king."

“...Yes, I suppose I was.” He can’t help but let out a sigh as he skims past the sketches, stomach twisting slightly as he does so. “...I do wish I hadn’t gone to such lengths to achieve such detail, however.”

"The notes about grave digging are a little, erm, concerning, but I'm sure it's not the worst thing done in the name of science." He rubs his jaw again.

The King lets out another heavy sigh. “I suppose so. It does not change the fact that I did it. And I regret it to this day.”

"I wouldn't. There's a lot of good information in there. Helped me figure out what components _not_ to use in my experiments."

He frowns at that, letting out a humming noise. “Hmm...Such a strange concept. Knowledge that comes with a gory, bloody, oft undesirable price. Begs the question of whether or not that knowledge should even exist.”

Podzol frowns in return. "Which begs the question of who's deciding what knowledge is allowed."

“Which in turn offers the concept of suppression; one cannot keep all knowledge unobtainable. For that only encourages those who seek it to resort to bloodier and bloodier methods. But one cannot also offer all knowledge freely, for it means those who crave something darker can use that knowledge to gain the power it can hold. People die, no matter what one does. It’s a shame.”

"Knowledge always comes with a price, my King. But staring at the price instead of the application of said knowledge leaves you with a lot of nothing instead of something." Another bug twitches and he picks up another syringe and walks over to them without giving the King a glance. The coldness from earlier was returning to him.

“...I suppose you have a point, Podzol. A bitter truth, but a truth nonetheless.” He turns to watch as the injection is administered, the book long forgotten, still in his hands.

"And the bitter truth here is that you're wasting time talking philosophy instead of actually working. If I may be so honest." He injects the serum with perhaps a little more force than intended.

That gets the King to blink, a tad shocked at such...brazen speech. He can’t recall _anyone_ that had _ever_ talked to him like that, aside from his closest companions. But a mere doctor, a citizen, no less...

He takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly, nodding softly, trying to get over it. “Forgive me, I had... gotten distracted. Is there any aid I should give in this tent? Or should I move on?”

"I've stabilized them all for the most part. Given they're already infected, I would rather you help others. They need it more than anyone here."

“Of course. My apologies; I did not mean to take up your time. Farewell.” He nods at Podzol, takes a single step, then pauses, before looking back down at his notebook. He then holds it out. “..I...have no use for these anymore. My days of scientific fanaticism are over. If you’ve already used what’s in these books to find a way to keep the people in the Archives safer, then I see no reason as to why you shouldn’t keep them. Consider this a sign of trust.”

"Trust?" He looks up from the bug he was working on, brows raised, and glances between the King's face and the books in his hand. "I... are you sure?"

“A King should have trust in his people. I see no reason why I shouldn’t have trust in you when you did this.” He gestures to the syringe, still halfway filled with the serum.

Podzol follows his hand and some of the tenseness in his shoulders falls away. He eases the rest of the serum into the bug and pulls out the syringe. "Thank you, I... Thank you." He gently takes the books back, not quite meeting his gaze.

The King nods softly, pauses, then speaks. “Good luck.” He lifts up the tent flap, walking out without another word.

"Good luck to you... too..." His eyes widen. "W-wait!" There's the sound of clambering for a moment, and then Podzol's head sticks out from the tent. "Wait, sir, there's, erm, something else. I almost forgot. Wait a moment. Please."

The King pauses, turning back around with an eyebrow raised, but decides to wait, nodding softly. “Alright.”

"Okay. Be right back." He glances side to side at the passing bugs before slipping into the tent. There's a moment of silence, and then the mantis pops out again, holding a more modern textbook in his hands. "I know it's not much, but I, erm, while testing on some of the pustules, I think I might have found a hypothetical way to slow the infection. Physically at least. Maybe."

That gets the King to blink, and he walks back toward the tent. “How so?”

"Well, in examining some of the corpses..." He glances at him, and then quickly back to his notebook, flipping through pages hurriedly. "Er, I found a strange consistency to them regarding the pustules, or cysts, whatever you want to call them. Almost each and every one of them has one developed under the skull, just above the spine. Very small, but still noticeable."

The King nods softly, a hand drifting to his chin. “I see...Are you suggesting doing something regarding those cysts?”

"Well, that's the thing. Most of the cysts don't react to anything. They don't recede at all. But most of the infected bugs _also_ don't react to most of the medicine prescribed to them. Excluding..." He nods toward the tent. "...a certain coma inducing drugs."

The King nods slowly. “Yes...And?”

"Well, essentially, my drug is lessening the blood flow to the brain, and lowering average blood pressure. So what if that cyst in the back of the bugs' head _needs_ a certain amount of pressure in order to..." He waves a hand for a moment. "Connect the mind to, er... whatever is causing all this. The g-" He cuts himself off, recalling his surroundings. "Well, you know. I've kind of been toying with this idea for a little while, since it was a bit obvious this isn't just some regular infection, and... well... Zombies aren't exactly real as far as I know, but if someone could theoretically hijack another person's mind? They'd need something to relay commands to, right?"

“...Right.” He pauses for a moment. “..So you’re suggesting, what, exactly? A way to lessen blood pressure around that specific part of the spine?”

"Well... that's the tricky part. If that cyst is where most of the commands are coming in, and lower blood pressure affects it, then that's one option. But that'll also lead to, well... unconsciousness, brain damage, memory less, death - if done improperly, that is. The other thing is to get rid of the cyst entirely. Another drug might be able to do something, or maybe surgery to remove it, but open brain surgery is kind of... risky. I've been trying to figure out a formula to test out, but-" He shrugs. "I haven't had much time, since I'm mostly trying to keep the coma drug in supply, and I'm... fairly sure I'm out of my league on this." He holds his textbook out to him. "All of my notes on everything I've made in recent memory is in here. Different test trials, notes for future formulas... If anyone can figure out how to really get this out there, it would be you and Monomon."

“...Thank you, Podzol.” He takes the textbook, nodding. “I’ll be sure to give it to her when I find her. Do you happen to know where she might be?”

"Last I saw her, she was setting up a telescope to stare at the Howling Cliffs. Something about the Watcher seeing something? She wasn't very clear."

“Hmm...I see.” He nods again. “Thank you. Is there anything else you need to tell me?”

He taps his thumbs together, staring at the ground between them with a concentrated look on his face. "What I said about prices earlier... I won't take it back. I believe it's true. Everything has a price. But sometimes the price only increases the longer you stare at it. If you find yourself looking at something like that...." He takes a shaky breath and locks their eyes together. "You wouldn't be the first, and you won't be the last. You're not alone."

The King blinks at that, not quite expecting it, but manages to regain his composure. “...I understand. Thank you, Podzol.”

"Of course." He puts his hand out, almost out of instinct, and he mentally kicks himself. _A handshake with the King. Very smooth._

That gets the King to smile, holding back the chuckle that threatened to rise up in his throat, and takes his hand, giving it a shake. “I’ll be sure to find you once I’ve made progress on your findings.”

"Y-yes, sir. Thank you, erm. Yes." He shakes his hand numbly, heat rising in his face as he further dug his grave.

The King gives him a slight bow, before turning to walk away, unable to resist letting out a quiet chuckle. Normally he would be a little irritated at his subjects being so egregiously formal and worshipping towards him, but for some reason, he couldn’t help but find that specific encounter quite amusing.

Podzol holds his position for all of five seconds before burying his face in his claws. " _Gods_ , what was that? _Of course_ is not a response to appreciation, much less to a _King_."

"You're, um, talking to yourself again, Podzol."

He jumps, claws clenching, and slowly lets out a breath. "Please. Stop. Doing. That."

"As soon as you stop being a jerk." Wol grins lightly. "Monomon agreed with you. You have permission as well."

That gets him to perk up slightly, and his claws tap together. “Really? Is that so?” He grins to himself. “Perfect. I’ve been meaning to test the most recent batch.”

"Let's just hope you don't cause too much of a commotion this time." They elbow him and lift the tent flap. "And I'm still expecting an apology."

"Yes, yes... Apologies, my forte...."

Their voices disappear behind the durable cloth of the tent.

 

••••

"I still can't find her."

"Don't worry. She's around here somewhere." Grimm shifts Quirrel on his shoulders a bit, walking briskly through the huddled crowds of bugs. He had initially considered checking the tents for Monomon, but the child had immediately told him the tents were, for the most part, much too small to fit her and her tank. That being said, they were starting to receive curious looks from the bugs they passed. "Any idea what she may be doing, little one?"

“Hmm...” Quirrel pauses slightly, tapping his chin with a finger. “She’s probably trying to get to as many places as she can to see how her students and staff are doing. I’m surprised we haven’t spotted her yet. Usually when she’s in her tank she’s _surrounded_ by students.”

"Hm. This place is somewhat larger than I had assumed, to be honest." He turns a corner into a larger walkway. "So you think she'll be somewhere with students? Most everyone we've seen seems to be everyday civilians...."

“Well...The thing about her tank is that it...sometimes moves on it’s own. Sometimes. She’s still working out how to use the Lumaflies as a sort of engine, so sometimes she gets stuck. Then she offers any student who can push her where she needs to go ten extra credit points, and, well....You can imagine what happens next.”

"Of course." He could have told Quirrel that he had no clue what 'extra credit' was or how it was connected to their current predicament, but he decided to let the matter slide. "And how big did you say this tank is again?"

“It’s about as big as the Queen, maybe bigger. You’d know it when you see it.” He lifts a hand above his eyes as he scans around him, and he huffs. “I don’t get it, where could she have gone?”

"Something that big shouldn't be easy to hide..." Grimm taps a finger against Quirrel's leg where he's holding him. "If we could look over the crowd, we'd be able to find her more easily, but... maybe we could ask around? Someone has to know."

“Yeah, maybe...” He scans the area again, only to perk up upon seeing someone. “Oh, I know who we could ask!” He cups his hands around his mouth. “Mr. Helles? Mr. Helles, can you come here? We need to ask you something!”

Grimm blinks, then follows Quirrel's gaze to a lanky bug whose head is whipping around in search of them. He hesitantly raises a hand and waves at him, and their gazes catch. Helles frowns, then looks further up at Quirrel and blanches, hurrying toward them.

The bug finally comes to a stop in front of Grimm, eyes wide, looking shocked, to say the least. “Oh my word, Quirrel, what on earth are you doing up there?!”

Quirrel’s brow furrows and he looks a bit confused. “Um...Sitting here? We’re looking for-“

“Do you have any idea who’s shoulders you’re sitting on right now?!” 

“...Yes?” He looks even more confused.

Grimm blinks down at the bug, brow raised. "Do you... recognize me, sir? Not many people do, but I suppose it wouldn't be unheard of...."

Helles huffs, and though his voice takes on an irritated tone, his trembling legs signal his true emotions. “Of course I do! You’re the God of Nightmares! The demon of terror! The Nightmare King! What on _earth_ are you doing on such holy ground as this?! Trespassing on the King’s lands?!” 

Quirrel frowns harder. “He isn’t trespassing. The King knows that he’s here.” 

“Oh, rubbish! Those were probably just nothing more than some crafty lies! You!” He points at Grimm. “You unhand the Teacher’s child this instant!”

He tilts his head slightly. "Into the hands of someone who very clearly makes decisions on rumors rather than his own experiences and proof? I think not."

“Mr. Helles, he isn’t gonna hurt me or anything. He’s trying to help me find Monomon.” 

The bug visibly bristles with both anger and fear, his wings buzzing ever so slightly, and his claws clench. “I-...You...How do you know that?! He could be plotting something!”

"Please, plotting was so ten thousand years ago." Grimm sighs, giving the man a tired look. "The King and Queen are here as well, healing the ill. I am merely trying to return a child to his guardian. If you could help us with that, we would both be immensely grateful. Or would you rather I not find Monomon and continue walking around unchecked with her child in tow?"

He goes quiet for a moment, bristling even harder, before he finally lets out a sigh and points further south. “Last time I checked, she was heading down to the Howling Cliffs, looking for something. Kept mumbling about the ‘Vermillion Mayhem’ or some nonsense.”

Grimm straightens, going quiet for a moment. "Are you sure about that? Not that I disbelieve you, but did you really hear her say those words?"

“Hard to _not_ hear her say it, she babbles like no tomorrow.”

He closes his eyes and exhales slowly. "Great." He peers down at Mr. Helles. "Where precisely was she? What part of the encampment?"

“Hmm...” Helles turns to point near one of the larger tents. “She was in there, attending to the Watcher, before she had slipped back into her tank and sped off down toward the Cliffs. That’s all I know.”

"Hm. Good enough. Thank you for your time." He turns in the direction he had pointed in and starts walking.

Helles doesn’t say a word in response, merely glaring after Grimm’s visage before turning back to his work. Quirrel frowns to himself, looking quite confused. “Vermillion Mayhem?”

"That's what my Troupe used to be called, a long time ago. I suppose Monomon somehow found out I was here, though how she knew to look in the cliffs... Well, I suppose there isn't much else for us to hide."

“Right, you were talking about that earlier with the Queen...Is it safe? Monomon isn’t in any danger, is she?”

"Oh, no, not at all. She's perfectly safe. It's just easier for us to be less... visible. Raises fewer questions, especially for people like Mr. Helles."

“Oh, yeah. Sorry about that.” He looks away. “He’s usually a nice guy. I don’t get why he’d blow up at you like that. I mean, I know you’re the maker of Nightmares, but I don’t see why you’re being screamed at because of it.”

Grimm chuckles, touched by the innocent words. "People are easily scared of what they don't understand, more so when it's something they can't control or fight against. I'm sure Mr. Helles is a fine gentleman. He's merely scared of me, and what I can do."

“That’s what I don’t get. Yeah, nightmares are scary but..they’re just dreams. They can go away the moment you wake up. It’s easy. All you have to do is open your eyes.”

"Hmm. Yes. But what if someone could give nightmares a physical shape?"

He goes silent for a moment, before speaking up, voice a lot more quiet this time around. “...Then you have to kill them.”

Grimm frowns, tilting his head back as if trying to look at him. "Oh? Who told you that?"

“No one. Something I had to learn for myself. You can wake up from nightmares. But if you can’t....You make them end.” He looks away. “...Any way you can.”

Grimm is silent, contemplating his words. Killing the nightmares.... He recalls the words of those from the Crossroads, those who had asked him to simply end the nightmare gripping them despite the fact that it was all the work of _dreams_ . He sighs lightly. "Yes... you're right. You should do everything in your power to keep yourself alive in the face of such terrible danger." There was more he wanted to say, more he _should_ be saying, but it wasn't his place to give such advice. He gives the Watcher's tent a glance, and then walks past it as he notes some slightly obscured wheel tracks in the dirt. "That unpleasantness aside, can you see our dear Monomon yet? She should be around here somewhere."

Quirrel looks back toward what was ahead, and for a moment, he says nothing. “...Nope. Can’t see her at all.”

"Hmm. I do have tracks, so we've at least got something." He traces the ground with his eyes, making out the faintest lines among the various impressions on the ground. "Quite the large tank, isn't it?"

“It has to be big enough to hold Monomon, after all. Well, her and all the acid. Sometimes she can’t choose which specific vial to put in. Heheheh.” That gets him to let out a bit of a giggle.

"Vial?" He quirks a brow, pleased to hear the child's more lively remarks. "I wasn't aware there were so many types of acid in the area."

“Well, it’s still the same acid. Just depends on what’s in the acid. Or more specifically, what text.”

"Text? In acid?" He looks up from the tracks for a moment.

“Yeah!” His voice goes up slightly, sounding more excited. “I don’t know how she does it, but she can manipulate the make-up of the acid to store some strange code inside of it, code that translates to a sort of confusing looking text. It’s really hard to read at first, but then you get used to it.”

"Code in acid... that can be read as text..." He frowns, trying to consider what it would look like, let alone how it could even be possible. "That's... Huh. What kind of things are written in such a medium?"

“All kinds of things. Textbooks, scrolls, timelines, documents, usually stuff that people can read and learn from. Though she puts in a lot of stories too.”

"Oh. And is the information ever corrupted, or...?"

“Not usually, no. Sometimes the acid will start growing stagnant, and the coding will decay, but that’s why Monomon has an entire floor of the Archives meant to refresh the acid.”

"So, theoretically, the information would last for... forever? Well, not forever, but, you know what I mean."

“Well, the Archives wouldn’t be very good if the information it held wasn’t meant to last.” He looks a bit amused by that. “Of course it’ll last forever.”

"Er, well...." He considers telling the child that everything ends, eventually, and that even the most thorough methods for preserving text have a finite length, but snaps his jaw shut and instead considers the ease with which he said such things. Forever. Could be quite a long time for someone so young, but.... "A lot longer than text on paper or stone tablets?"

“Well, yeah. That’s why Monomon made the text in acid in the first place; paper and scrolls of silk decay to water, and even stone tablets can corrode over time. But the acid, as long as it’s refreshed, can stay in perfect condition. Even if the acid spills out of the tubes, it can be drained and put right back where it was.”

He frowns harder. If the acid was holding the contents, and the acid fell out... how would it...? Would it... would the words just scramble about on the ground? How could they be replaced? He blinks a few times. "I... don't quite understand how that would... work, but I'll take your word for it."

“I don’t understand either. Monomon always said it was a secret, a custom of her old home in the north.” He shrugs.

"In the north... Oh. The Micarians? They're a bit more to the east, though. Maybe the Corinians further north?"

“The what?” That gets Quirrel to lean over to try and look Grimm in the face.

Grimm shifts slightly to keep his balance, but doesn't stop walking. "Out to the northeast, there's a place called the Micarian Sea known for its acidity. Quite a few jellyfish live under there. But there's another little village closer to the North Ocean called Corian that also has a population of jellyfish. The water isn't quite as acidic, but they make do."

“Huh.” He sits back up, blinking. “That sounds really cool. I had no idea about all that.”

"I travel a lot with my Troupe. Quite a lot to see. So many different kinds of plants and animals. The seasonal festivals out east are absolutely _marvelous_ , but nothing beats the views from the southern mountains. Dawn and dusk - beautiful. Very peaceful."

“...Dawn and dusk?” Quirrel now looks downright quizzical.

"Yes? Oh, right, erm. Hallownest is under shadow. Forgot about that." He looks up at the sky, a dark, immobile grey. "Do you know about the sun?"

“No. What is it?”

"Ah...." He trails off, uncertainty creeping into his expression. "I don't know if you'll believe me."

“Come on! Now you have me all curious! What is it?” Quirrel leans forward again to stare Grimm in the face.

"Alright, alright." He chuckles, stumbling and moving his hands to keep Quirrel balanced. "The sun is a giant ball of luminous, fiery gases that spreads light across the surface of the world. It hangs in the sky like one of your kingdom's many lumafly lamps, only much, much larger and far, far away."

Quirrel blinks, and his excitement seems to fade some. “So...It’s a giant fireball?”

"In essence? Yes." His grin only grows. "It sounds like nothing, but there's a certain beauty it brings that you simply can't find in the darkness." He sighs slightly. "The brightness can be somewhat painful for me, though."

“Really? I thought you wouldn’t mind being in the light. You’re made of fire, or at least that’s what I’ve heard.”

"Made of fire?" He snorts. "I may have to tone down my performances. While it is true I hold power over fire, I'm flesh and shell, just like you. I'm a creature of the dark, though. Imagine a campfire at night, where people gather, but you can't quite see their faces until they step into the glow of the flames."

“Huh. Sounds weird. Aren’t you a God? I always thought that Gods were like...different.”

"Well, maybe we are, but maybe we aren't. I think there are many things that make us different, but also many things that make us similar." He shrugs, jostling Quirrel slightly.

“Well, I _know_ I can’t make fire. Or nightmares.” Quirrel also shrugs. “So that’s one difference.”

He laughs a little. "So it is, friend, so it is. Ooh. Is that the tank we're looking for?"

“Huh?” Quirrel looks up, only to see the tank sitting a good few feet away. It was a rather large structure, a long tube of currently dormant lumaflies attached to its rear, while another tube sat vertically in the middle, which was currently opened, filled halfway up with acid. “Yup, that’s it.”

"Impressive in its size, I must admit." He walks closer to it, head tilted as he takes in the wheels and axles holding the contraption aloft. "Almost like a carriage combined with a small pool. But where is Monomon?"

“She can leave the tank, but she usually stays in it so she doesn’t dry out...” He lifts himself up, holding his hands to his mouth. “Monomon! _Monomon_!”

Grimm gently touches the tube of lumaflies. "Still warm. How does she use these little creatures as a generator again?" He watches one flutter a wing. "Aw, I think they're tired."

“I wouldn’t touch those if I were you, Enkay. You of all people should know how unstable they can get.” A voice comes out from the distance, and a figure is seen approaching them, albeit sloppily, looking as if they’re having trouble walking.

Grimm pulls his hand away and turns sharply toward the figure. Quirrel yelps, clutching his horns for balance, and then recognizes the shape hobbling toward them and leaps off his shoulders.

"Monomon!" He races at her, all but tackling her to the ground in a hug. "We were looking all over for you!"

“ _Oof_!” The figure all but crumples to the ground, but it isn’t long for tendrils to wrap around Quirrel and give him his own hug, letting out a chuckle as she does so. “Hehehe. Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you worry. I just went to see if what Lurien saw was true.” She looks up at Grimm, smiling. “And seeing how you’re standing here, Enkay, then I know it must be.”

Grimm lets a small grin slide onto his face. "Lurien saw my Troupe coming? I'll admit I'm intrigued as to how, but, well, there are a few things I believe we need to talk about beforehand."

"He doesn't go by Enkay anymore," Quirrel told her helpfully. "His name's Grimm."

That gets Monomon to pause, and she tilts her head for a moment. “Grimm.... How odd. Why have you changed your name?”

"There's a lot that has changed, in all honesty, but, erm..." He takes a breath, holds it, and then exhales heavily. "Would you believe me if I told you I am an entirely different person with little to no memories of my past life?"

She goes silent for a moment, then nods twice. “It certainly would explain why you aren’t hugging me right now. And why you almost angered those lumaflies.”

He laughs awkwardly and takes a careful step away from the contraption in its entirety. "I've always been bad with butterflies."

“Well, they don’t tend to react well with heat, and you radiate a lot of it. Too much heat, too much agitation and...Well....They tend to be rather... _shocking_.” She chuckles.

Quirrel groans. " _Monomon_."

Grimm snickers. "Oh, come now. A pun like that isn't quite as re- _volting_ as you make it out to be."

“Ohoho, nice to know you still have that _electric_ wit, you just _zap_ puns out like there’s no tomorrow.”

"Ugh, no, stop." Quirrel buries his face in his hands.

Grimm all but snorts, shaking his head and waving a hand in surrender. "Okay, okay. I _definitely_ have not kept up on puns that much. But I do appreciate them."

“Alright, alright, I accept your surrender for now. But know that any attempt at sabotage in the pun war will lead to a _lightning_ fast retort. Ohohohoho!” She starts laughing, a hearty guffaw that has her slapping tendrils on the ground in mirth.

He chuckles, glad to see some ounce of optimism in all the doom and gloom of Hallownest. "Not many people can pull so many puns all at once. Truly a gift."

"Don't encourage her. Please."

“Oh, _light_ en up, Quirrel! It’s not like these puns will last forever!” She playfully gives him a poke in the cheek.

"Uuugh." He rolls his eyes and gives Grimm a death glare.

The god of nightmares laughs uneasily. "Well, um, in all seriousness, there are a few things we should talk about. Like why I'm here and how I'm here and all that."

That gets her mischief to vanish, and she looks up at him, still holding Quirrel to her chest. “Oh...Yes, of course.”

"Usually I'd be all for sharing puns, but there is a slight bit of a... time crunch on this." He shifts. "If you have any questions to start off..."

“...You were dead. How are you not dead?”

"A Resurrection Ritual only I am privy to. A certain set of requirements are fulfilled and, upon death, my body resets. All things physical are returned to zero, from muscle memory to taste buds. Actual memories are set aside to make room for the new memories of the new body."

She nods intently, as if trying to process this, tendrils curling absently. “I wish I had my quill.” She looks back up. “Why return now?”

"The King summoned me to help with the infection. He didn't know I was alive until I answered the call. He must have been either very desperate or generally not thinking straight."

She lets out a sigh. “That...does sound like King.” She tilts her head again. “I guess that only begs the question as to why you’re up here with Quirrel.”

"Oh, well, a child needs their parent." He shrugs. "I also need a few things from my Troupe to help aid the kingdom. We have a bit of a plan to help buy you more time, but I'll need torches in order to do it."

“Torches? Why would we need those? They’re...They...” She huffs for a moment and covers Quirrel’s ears. “They’re nothing more than signs of a kingdom’s death.”

"Or a kingdom's rebirth. And lighting them would allow me to influence the citizens enough to induce nightmares in place of dreams."

She sighs, softly, and uncovers Quirrel’s ears. “I suppose that would work.” She finally directs her attention to him, smiling. “So, what was it like meeting the King?”

"He is so cool!" Quirrel waves his arms animatedly. "He healed everything, and he was super nice, and the air vents in the Palace are _massive_. I could walk in them!"

“Oh, were they? I bet they must’ve led to a bunch of amazing places.”

"Oh, yeah, definitely. I found the Knights' training room. There was this, like, armory or something that had a bunch of buzzsaws in it, but Dryya found me before I could really get a look at them."

She lets out a slight huff. “Well, I’m certainly glad that she did. Those things can be dangerous.” She then smiles, leaning down with a slightly mischievous tone. “I bet you also had a lot of fun with the Knights, right? If I recall, you really like Hegemol.”

"Monomon." He hunches slightly. "Not in front of other people." He quickly glances at Grimm and back to her. "But they _are_ really cool."

“Heheh. Of course they are.” She lifts her head upon noticing two other figures approaching, smiling upon recognizing their shapes, extending a tendril to wave. “Greetings, My Queen. Greetings, Dryya. I’m glad to see you well. I certainly hope the Palace wasn’t that damaged by the quake.”

"I am happy to report that the Palace remains intact, despite its proximity to the quake." The Queen grins lightly. "I see Grimm managed to bring Quirrel back to you."

"Ah. You say that like you expected me _not_ to succeed in my mission." Grimm rests a hand over his chest. "I'm offended."

“Considering how I remember you, I half expected you to run off with the boy and start lighting off fires or blowing up rocks.” Monomon giggles through her words, finally letting go of Quirrel to start crawling towards her tank. “Though I will admit, perhaps my expectations need to change now that you aren’t the same person. Very fascinating. I’m going to have to update my documents.”

"Documents?" Grimm raises a brow, watching as she pulls herself into her tank. "You have documents on me?"

“I have documents on everyone, En..Grimm. It’s only natural. The Archives acts as storage for _all_ information. And I do mean, all.” She gives him a wink, plunging into the acid, somehow fitting easily despite being larger than the actual vial, letting out a sigh. “Ah, that feels better. Was getting a bit too dry there.”

"I suppose I shouldn't be _too_ surprised. Hm." He puts a hand on his chin. "Founts of knowledge... as a being of secrets, I find myself incredibly intrigued. Are you _sure_ you have everything?"

“Hah! I wouldn’t be able to have the title of _The Teacher_ if I didn’t have all the information in Hallownest!”

"Ah, _in Hallownest_ . That makes more sense." He smirks. "If you have any need of knowledge _outside_ your domain, I may be of use to you."

“Hmmm...” She narrows her eyes, and her mask gives the impression of her smirking despite having no mouth. “I may have to take up such an offer.” 

The Queen clears her throat slightly. “Now, now, Monomon, before you decide to barrage Grimm to death with questions, don’t you think Lurien might want to know that he’s back?”

The grin disappears, and she hums, a tendril rapping at her mask. “Hmm...I suppose you’re right. He _was_ the one that envisioned the Vermillion Mayhem in Hallownest soil. Very well, we’ll go tell him. Quirrel? Would you mind giving the flies a jumpstart?”

Quirrel sighs lightly and walks over to it. He knocks on the battery a bit, frowns, and then gives it a solid kick. The lumaflies all jump into the air, arcs of electricity leaping from their bodies as they frantically swoop around each other. The engines revs and he gives a thumbs up. "Got it."

“Splendid!” She moves to shut the top of the vial, pauses suddenly, then slowly peeks her head out over the vial again. “Er...I hate to ask this of all of you, but I forgot that this tank has...a very crucial flaw. It, uh...I can’t steer it.”

"Oh, er... Alright. How do you move it then?" The White Lady raises a brow.

Grimm frowns. "Quirrel told me you got students to move your tank at times...."

“Yes, indeed, but, uh....They all went back toward the camps...” She looks incredibly sheepish. 

Quirrel lets out a groan. “Ugh...Monomon, we talked about this. You need to find a way to steer the tank so stuff like this doesn’t happen.” 

“I know, I know. I just haven’t had the time, what with the infection.”

Dryya shrugs. "We can push you. Shouldn't be too much of an issue with us two."

Grimm frowns. "There's four of us, not including Monomon."

She barely bats an eye. "Quirrel is half the size of the tank, and you can't even withstand a hug. Pardon me for counting you two out on this."

Grimm huffs, looking away. “You try getting hugged by a massive fungal woman.” 

Monomon taps the glass of her vial with a tendril. “Please, please, I don’t care who pushes me, I just need someone to turn me around in the correct direction.”

"We'll handle it." The Queen chuckles lightly and nods to Dryya, the two of them approaching the tank and taking respective sides. "I'm assuming the battery is the back?"

“Yes, that’s correct. Try not to touch it. The flies are already agitated enough.”

"We'll try our best." They dig their feet into the ground and heave against the sides, spinning it toward the footpaths of the camp.

Grimm pouts. "I could have helped."

"You could have broken your back is what you could have done." Dryya rolls her eyes.

He sputters, crossing his arms under his cloak and grumbling under his breath.

“Ohoho! Still the same weakling, huh, Grimm? Ohoho! I still remember the time you bet that you could benchpress an entire bookshelf!” Monomon can’t help but chortle to herself, finally giving the vial she’s contained in a sharp knock. With that, there’s the sound of clanking as the wheels of the tank start to turn.

"Benchpressed a bookshelf? I would never-"  He slaps a hand over his face. "Ugh. But Enkay would. _Gods_. How embarrassing..."

“Correction: he _tried_. Ended up getting squashed and had to have the Queen lift it off.”

That gets the Lady to chortle, a hand coming up to her face as she lets out a little snort. “Oh, I remember that! Hahah! He was practically crushed flat!”

He shakes his head, trying to ignore the crimson flooding his face, and strides ahead of them.

 

••••

The scent of acid, metallic, thick, was heavy in the air, and it was enough to make the King grimace ever so slightly, even as he picks up the soaked towel he had dunked in a bowl of water, taking great care to dab it against a particularly bloody wound that lined Lurien’s shoulder, letting out a sigh. “..I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. I didn’t want to distract you from your own work. It was a selfish move, I know.”

"I'm not sure I would have believed you, in all honesty." Lurien held still as the King worked, and hummed lightly in thought. "Interesting that both of them are alive, though. Have you asked him about it?"

“I’ve tried to question certain things, but he’s much more...reclusive, than Enkay used to be. He says it’s a manner of not remembering us, and how easily his revival ritual can be tampered with, or even ceased.” He narrows his eyes, before picking up a pair of tweezers, slowly moving to pick out a piece of glass that he sees imbedded in the cut. “Still can’t believe you asked the doctors to _not_ deal with your wounds. You were smack in the middle of that quake, from what I’m hearing of the damage to the Archives.”

"There were others who had it worse than I did." He frowns after a moment. "That's not entirely what I meant. He's alive, and... _She's_ alive."

He freezes for a moment, his stomach twisting into a knot, before he nods slowly. “...Yes, indeed. You could sense Her, couldn’t you?”

"When I started looking for Her, yes." He sighs. "I didn't want to believe it, but the facts were there. It's merely... odd that Enkay, or Grimm, rather, would show up after all this time. Didn't you try summoning him all those years ago? He didn't answer then."

“No, he did not. I suppose when I tried it this time, I just...didn’t think it would work. And when it did...I was shocked. More than shocked.” He looks down for a moment. “...He’s so different. It’s strange, looking into the same face and have it just..not be the same.”

"You know, I always thought Enkay looked older than he claimed. Something about him screamed ancient."

“I always had that sense too. A...lingering presence, just beneath his own frame, akin to..” He pauses, trying to put it into words. “It’s like if someone took the same picture and just kept layering them on top of each other, but each time, they added something just the tiniest bit different. Fragments of the same person, congealed into one image.”

"An interesting idea." He pauses again. "And he really doesn't remember?"

“No. He saw my Lady and didn’t even recognize her. I’m sure the only reason he knew me is because of legend or word of mouth. He and his Troupe have been exploring all around the Wastelands all this time.”

"I would have expected him to stumble upon us before now if that were the case. Unless they told him not to come near."

“I wouldn’t be surprised if that were the case. They left not long after he died, so they must’ve assumed She still lived.”

"I imagine a goddess dying wouldn't go unnoticed in the Wastes."

“Well, why else would the Troupe tell him to stay away from these lands, then?” He tugs out another shard of glass.

"Because it was the last place he had died. From what you said, it doesn't seem like that fight was part of their ritual."

“Well, from what he _explained_ , no. He hasn’t told us everything. That much I know.”

"Hm." He trills his hand against his knee. "I suppose I would be a bit paranoid in his place. The more people who know about his revitalization process, the more people there are who could theoretically ruin it. Which I suppose would kill him, wouldn't it? In a way."

“Indeed. I don’t necessarily blame him for not telling us. I just wish that it wouldn’t have erupted into such a mess because of it.” He sighs, then glances up at Lurien’s face, still covered by his mask. “...Are you injured on your face at all? Can you still see?”

He stares at him for a moment, then shakes his head. "No, I mostly just hurt my shoulder. I'm fine."

“Lurien...” He narrows his eyes slightly, suspicious of the pause.

"I'm fine, I promise. I merely didn't expect the question."

“Hmm...At least let me look. Please.”

"As you wish." He brings a hand to his mask and gingerly pulls it away.

The sight of his face was something both new and old, in that it was a sight that he knew long ago, but saw it so rarely that it always came and caused the breath to leave his lungs. He could feel his heart twist, his mind growing muddled with old sounds, sights, feelings. Blood drenching his claws as he spilled the blood of that miserable tyrant. Anger brewing in his veins, watching the poor creature in front of him lose his mind to the power it was locked under. Carving the mask that would bring him freedom. It was only because of the weight of the towel in his claws and the strong scent of the outside air that kept him fully grounded. He shook his head, his free hands coming up to slowly cup Lurien’s face, turning it side to side slowly, his eyes taking in the sight of scarred flesh, cracked shell, bleached of color and burnt of life, with those shining beacons of light staring up at him from long dead sockets. 

“...Anything wrong? You can still see me clearly?”

"As clearly as usual." He let him move his head as needed, face impassive.  His lips barely moved despite the clarity of his words.

“Hmm...No tearing? No reopened scarring?”

"Nothing I could feel. Do you see anything?"

“Hmmm...There’s a small cut on your cheek. Doesn’t look too serious. Might have some glass in it.” He picks up a pair of tweezers. “I know this won’t exactly hurt, but, try to stay still.”

"I told Monomon her vats could be easily compromised."

“To be fair, we both know how prone she is to...not listening sometimes. Granted, I don’t think she expected slabs of concrete to burst the pipes.” He yanks out the bits of glass, piece by piece, and never once does he feel so much as a twitch from Lurien’s face. Some part of his heart couldn’t help but sink.

"Hm." He runs a thumb over his mask, waiting for the King to pull away with another glass splinter. "I'm just glad nothing broke my mask."

“Indeed. That certainly would be quite the hassle if it got broken. Would have to make you another one.” He finally pulls away the last shard, dabbing at the cut with the wet cloth, before finally swiping his thumb over it, sealing it up.

"If it's alright with you, I'd rather Grimm... not know what happened to me. As of right now at least. Maybe some time, but... I'd rather explain it myself."

The King pauses for a moment, but then he nods, softly. “Of course.” He gives him one more look over, before nodding again. “I don’t see anything else. You can put the mask back on.”

"Thank you, my King." He fixes his mask back onto his face and feels the muscles in his back loosen in response. "We'll be having visitors soon."

“Oh? Who?” He tilts his head slightly.

"Grimm, the White Lady, Monomon, Dryya, and Quirrel. I believe they're arguing semantically about the importance of strength."

That gets the King to chuckle, and he sets the medical tools down, folding his arms back into his robes. “Already, he’s warming up to them so quickly.”

“If he takes after Enkay at all, it shouldn't be all too surprising."

“There are still some aspects in there, if one knows where to look. Still really good with children. Still has a flair for theatrics. You’ll see in a moment, I’m sure.”

"Gladly." He pushes himself more upright, straightening his clothes over new bandages.

The King turns just as the flaps of the tent open up, Dryya walking in, as well as the Lady, though she has to hunch over in order to make it through. He can’t help but smile at the sight of her presence, reaching out to give her hand a squeeze. “Lurien tells me you found Monomon?”

"Oh, yes. Grimm found her without much trouble. They're bickering over what strength is the most valuable." She squeezes his hand in return.

"They started telling puns so we went ahead of them." Dryya taps her sword absently.

“Of course they did.” He can’t help but chuckle, turning to gesture at Lurien. “Well, I’ve looked him over and aside from a few scrapes and cuts, he seems to be perfectly fine.”

"That's good. Herrah and Quirrel filled us in on what happened. You're quite lucky they came when they did."

"There seems to be quite a bit of that going around these days," Lurien allowed.

The Lady steps forward to lay a hand on Lurien’s arm, looking worried. “You didn’t get burned anywhere, did you? Is your face ok?”

"I'm entirely fine, my Queen. The King has given me a clean bill of health."

"-is so superficial. There's nothing behind it except it's physicality, which is easily beaten by a proper strategy."

"But a strategy typically requires people to physically carry out tasks."

Dryya sighs lightly. "Sounds like them."

“Oh good gods.” The King can’t help but chuckle as the curtain peels back to reveal Monomon and Grimm still blabbering to each other while Quirrel is standing between them holding his ears. 

“Just because I can’t benchpress a bookshelf when I claim I can means anything! It’s just some stupid claim I - _he_ made when he was probably drunk or high or _both_!”

“But we all know impaired control of the brain ends up with loose lips that reveal secrets. How do we know that you weren’t bearing some insecurities about your lack of strength, using big words and even bigger dramatics to fill that void?”

“Monomon, please, you’re a scientist, not a psychologist.” 

“What’s the difference?”

“There are _many_ differences!”

“Not to me! I read you like an open book!”

“Yeah! A blank one!”

The White Lady chuckles lightly and clears her throat loud enough for them both to notice. "Alright, you two. I believe that's enough squabbling for one night."

Monomon takes in a deep breath, holds it, and then sighs. "Yes, my Queen."

Grimm merely shrugs, tucking one arm under the other and waving a hand. "Alright, but she started it."

"You are _so_ immature."

"Only when I want to be, dear." He smirks and scans the room, eyes catching on Lurien and grin smoothing to something more welcoming. "You must be Lurien."

Lurien nods in greetings. “And you must be Grimm. A much better name than ‘Enkay,’ in my opinion. Certainly fits the title of Nightmare King.”

Grimm's grin widens. " _Thank you_. Finally, someone gets it. You have a title fit for a horror novel, may as well go along with it, right?"

“Oh, of course. I mean, I have the title of ‘Watcher’ and yet _some people_ -“ He pointedly glares at Monomon. “-feel the need to criticize me when I want a massive tower within which to watch over things.”

“Lurien, you can see the entire kingdom-“

“You just don’t have the eye for good architectural designs! Ms. My-Entire-Fucking-House-Is-Made-With-Acidic-Pipes!” 

“Why do you need a tower if you can just _see_ everything in the kingdom?!”

“Maybe because I want my own tower?!”

"Towers are wonderful for aesthetic purposes, but-" Grimm gently put his hands over Quirrel's. "Let's keep the language child friendly, yes?"

Quirrel looks up at him. "I can't hear anything if that's what you're worried about."

"My point still stands."

Lurien grimaces, nodding. “Right, right. Sorry. Didn’t see the kid from down there.”

"No worries. I merely thought I'd mention it for the whole group." Grimm shrugs. "So is this where everyone asks questions and I answer them, or...?"

“No, no, the King has done a good job of summing everything up for me.” He goes quiet for a moment. “It’s good to have you back, though I know that probably means nothing to you.”

Grimm blinks, and then laughs gently, his expression softening. "Oh, no, believe me, it means everything. You all are entirely within your rights to be _mercilessly_ upset with me, but you aren't. And I could never thank you all enough for it."

“Well, don’t get me wrong, had you come back any sooner, I’m sure we all would’ve been livid. But we have bigger problems, and I guess that must’ve taken most of the heat off.”

"Oh, yes, that makes sense too. Entirely reasonable." He waves a hand again.

“Hmm. That being said, I do have to ask...Is the Vermillion Mayhem here?”

"My Troupe?" Grimm blinks. "Oh, they're up in the Howling Cliffs, yes. They more than likely won't be coming down unless things calm down. Or if we can provide supplies, now that I think of it. It's entirely within reason that we could look into that, though I'd need to peruse a few maps to make sure..."

“Oh, no, no, I couldn’t ask your kin to do that. I dragged them back into this whole thing in the first place.” The King pipes up, shaking his head.

"Don't be ridiculous. I could do it myself if need be _and_ still hold my concentration on the torches." He raises a brow at the King's expression. "Teleportation is one of my specialties. It would be a sin to not use it."

“Teleportation, you say?” That gets Monomon to perk up. “Does that mean, you could, perhaps, take us down to see the Troupe? I want to see what’s changed! It’s been _ages_ since we’ve seen any of your, well, Enkay’s masterpieces!”

The Lady lets out a nostalgic sigh. “Oh, I remember those days. The music, the stunts, the wonderful lightshows. It was pure beauty.” 

The King nods in agreement. “Yes, it certainly would be nice to see how much things have changed. If they have at all.”

"I was already planning on bringing a few people with me while getting the torches ready..." He looks them over. "If you all want to see the Troupe, I'll be happy to bring you, but I will advise you it is not the same as Enkay's Vermillion Mayhem."

“Ooh! Sounds exciting to me!” Monomon excitedly claps two tendrils together.

Dryya glances at her sword, then back at Grimm. “What’s your policy on accidental stabbing?”

"Strictly off limits, but I can keep my eye on you if needed. My reflexes can be quite fast."

“...” She’s silent for a moment, takes a deep breath. “....Can you promise to keep the ghosts away?” 

In the distance, Ogrim and Hegemol start laughing.

"I'll do my best to keep them at bay, but I can't promise they won't get close. They have their own autonomy and I won't take part in stripping them of it."

Dryya nods, once, twice. “I think I shall stay here. Know that if the Queen is harmed in any way, I shall retaliate immediately.” 

The King sighs, rubbing over his face. “Dryya, please.”

“Just stating hypotheticals, My King.”

"And I suppose I will... accept such retaliation?" He frowns. "Would this be a sword fight or something more judicial or...?"

“Yes.”

“ _No_. There will be no swordfighting the Nightmare King, Dryya.”

“Axes?”

“No!”

“Spears?”

“No, Dryya!”

“Not even a measly war hammer?”

“For God - No!”

“Hmph.” She looks away. “Very well.”

"I've done it all, since most places have different customs." Grimm shrugs lightly. "Does anyone else wish to stay?"

“I’m good here, thanks.” Lurien lifts a hand. “Knowing the way life has been kicking my ass, I don’t doubt that a heart attack from being scared will somehow be enough to put me down for good.”

"Language, but yes, I understand." Grimm looks down at Quirrel, who still had his hands clamped to the sides of his face. "And you, little one?"

“Hmm?” He uncovers his ears. “What’s that?”

"Would you like to see my Troupe? It'll be a little spooky, but Monomon and the King and Queen are coming."

“Hmm...” He looks a bit unsure. “..I dunno...”

"You don't have to come. I'm merely extending the offer. Feel free to decline."

Dryya coughs into her fist. "I could watch him if he doesn't want to go."

"And I suppose I'll be free as well," Lurien offered.

Quirrel glances over at them for a moment, shuffles from foot to foot, and then sighs. “..Ok, I’ll...I’ll stay...”

Monomon pulls him into a hug, petting the top of his head. “It’s ok, Quirrel. It’s ok. I’ll be back soon, alright? Want me to get you anything?”

“...Do they have cotton candy? That’s some sweet thing I heard carnivals have. Really want to try it.”

"We have _plenty_ of cotton candy." Grimm smiles widely. "I'll make sure to have a box made just for you."

“Thank you.” Quirrel pulls away to nod at Grimm before walking over to stand at Dryya’s side.

"Alrighty then." Grimm claps his hands together, grinning at the King, Queen, and Teacher. "Do we want to leave now, or is there anything else that needs doing around here?"

“I don’t believe so.” The King shakes his head. “I’ve done my best to find and heal those that were injured.” 

The Lady nods in agreement. “Now that Monomon is here, it’s safe to assume we’re ready.” 

Monomon doesn’t answer, visibly trembling with excitement.

"Good." His grin widens, almost curling on itself, and there's almost something insidious with the single word response. He raises a hand, fingers poised to snap, and winks at the bugs to remain behind. "Until next time."

 _Snap_.

A whirlwind snatches the four of them, mere bursts of flame that erupt and instantly dampen into crimson smoke, and for but a moment the three passengers can feel nothing, see nothing, _breathe_ nothing except pure flame. None of it burned them - it wouldn't dare, not under the guide of the Nightmare King - but it couldn't help its consumptive nature. It almost apologetically offered its warmth in replace of the oxygen it stole, and left an almost... cinnamony taste in its wake. The following moment, oxygen returned, quickly followed by a sharp wind and the mountain cold which trailed not all too far behind. Jagged rocks and crags surrounded the group, dull lights from the camps below filtering up in dull shadows. Not even a second had passed.

Grimm smirks in the semi-darkness, his eyes glowing brightly. "I don't think I could express how long I've been waiting to do that."

The King took a couple seconds to regain himself, the oxygen surging back into his lungs as if it had never been snatched away in the first place, wings flaring out slightly in an effort to keep his balance, hunching over slightly, hands clutching his knees. He takes a moment to breathe in and out, deeply, smacking his lips idly as the taste of cinnamon tingles against his tastebuds, spicy, but not to the point of pain. He coughs once, twice, taking a moment to  straighten himself back up. “My word...I’ve teleported before, but it was never that...visceral.” 

The Lady was coughing a bit harder, the branches growing free from her head slowly curling in on themselves, as if sensing the overwhelming amount of heat and trying their damndest to shield themselves from it. Her eyes were watering slightly from the smoke, but other than that, she seemed less winded, stepping forward slightly to look down towards the lights. “Oh..Oh my...It’s certainly bigger since last time..”

Monomon was sprawled on the ground, her tentacles writhing against the dirt in order to get a proper grip, still dripping with acid, the rocks and rubble beneath her tendrils hissing and steaming slightly as a result. She was giggling, craning her mask up in an effort to see. “Ooh, it is! It is! How marvelous!”

"Yes! Come, come. Oh, we are _so close_ . Ah!" Grimm lights a small fire in his palm, stepping toward the outcropping of rocks they were peering down and skipping nimbly along their edges. He hops - practically just a step with his long legs - down one to another, and belatedly shakes his hand to send small embers toward an almost stair-like foundation set into the earth, lighting the path for them. "It's always so nice to be back _home_ ! Ooh! Enkay didn't have trapeze artists back in the day, did he? I'd _love_ to show you all their routines. They're absolutely _brilliant_."

“Trapeze? I’m...slightly unfamiliar with that word.” The King approaches the edge to peer down towards the foundation of the cliff, before merely dropping down to join Grimm’s side, his wings giving at least one flap to make the descent not so rough on his legs, hiking up his robes ever so slightly as he does so. 

“Oh, I know what it means, dear! It’s when those actors swing back and forth through the air on swings, right? Enkay used to use them a lot during his performances!” The Lady likewise hikes up her robes a bit, extending a foot down into the open air, only to have a bright white root burst out of the rock to meet her step, quickly followed by another, and another, until she steps down safely, the roots retracting back into the earth from whence they came.

“Oh, yes! I’ve always wondered how to do that! I believe Marissa used to be the best in the entire act!” Monomon’s mask peeks up from over the edge, her tendrils coming down in a swarm, clumsily gripping at rocks and loose pebbles, sliding forwards, down the slope to the point where it almost looks like she’s about to flop over, but as the edge slowly curls into flat ground, she straightens herself, wobbling and bobbing uneasily on her tendrils, not looking to have a scratch.

"Marissa, Marissa.... A singer, yes? Must have been before my time." Grimm taps his chin, not quite paying attention to his steps as he considers the name. The red glow of the Troupe stretches to meet them, blocked by a few ill-placed boulders, and the moment Grimm touches the light, his cloak sways as if coming to life, the underside illuminating scarlet.

Monomon, following along with unsteady movements, tendrils all moving at once to try and pull herself along the uneven terrain, nods, her delight only seeming to grow even more visible upon her mask. “Oh, yes! She used to be part of the whole thing, but decided to stay behind when...” Some of that excitement fades, and she clears her throat. “Well, now she’s the most famous singer in all of Hallownest!”

"Oh, yes, that does tend to happen. I'm glad to hear she's doing well after all this time." He grins despite the topic and they finally make it to more stable ground, a roughly circular clearing fully enclosed on three sides. Large tents in either black or red spot the area, the front of each holding open with an eerie, face like shape meant to mimic Grimm's own visage. A few bugs bustle from one tent to another. Grimm chuckles lightly. "I do believe my Kin have noticed our approach. A ghost or two might be by to greet us."

The moment the King steps into the clearing, he feels a chill run down his spine, a chill that quickly sleeps through his entire being as he sees the apparition of some smog-like creature pass through his chest as if it were water, and despite the fact that no pain is felt, he still can’t help but clutch his chest and wince, jaws starting to chatter slightly. The ghosts giggle with delight, swirling around and around his crown, their words drifting by his ears in a mocking, almost sing-song tone. “The Wyrm! The Drake! The Dragon! He has returned! Returned! Returned!”

The Lady and Monomon both giggle at the sight, the former extending a hand to give her husband a soft pat to the shoulder. “Seems like they missed you, dear.”

“M-Missed turning my insides into icicles, you mean.” He grumbles softly in return.

Grimm chuckles warmly. "It's very rare that they take so kindly to anyone living. You should take it as a compliment."

The Grimmkin chitter, swooping around the King another time before circling the Queen and Monomon. "New friends, old friends! We must tell the others. The others indeed, yes!"

"Make sure Divine doesn't try any of her usual tricks too." Grimm absently raises a hand for them as they pass, and gently pats one who hovers over his horns for a moment longer than the others. "Yes, yes. I'm back. Go along now."

The King lets out a sigh as the Grimmkin finally float out of sight, only to pause and straighten, a certain word ringing in his mind like that of a bell. “Hold on...Did you say...”

“DIVINE?!” Monomon rears up as high as she can go on her tendrils, looking both shocked and absolutely _delighted_. “She’s here?! She-She-She’s still-?!” She flounders for a moment before finally getting the word out. “Alive?!”

Grimm turns his head and blinks at them, almost looking confused. "Er... yes? I don't see why that... Oh, right, it's been quite some time. Enkay never told you?"

“That his Troupe members miraculously don’t wither away and die?! No!”

"I'm surprised. It's one of the things we're the most loose lipped about." He chuckles as they near the first rows of tents. "It's part of the pact everyone signs when they join. Time touches no one who falls under my wing."

“Incredible. Absolutely incredible.” Monomon looks fascinated to say the least. “I wish I had my notes..” 

The Lady lifts her head for a moment, sniffing the air. “...What is that smell? Is that food? It smells so delightful! I don’t even recognize it.”

The King pauses, before moving to smell the air himself. Indeed, it was not something he entirely recognized; it was much more sweet, more thick, and it left his stomach growling just a touch; he hadn’t recalled eating anything since that tea from yesterday.

"I've traveled all over the world. I try and find at least one dish to learn at each place we visit, though most end up being candies and snacks. I have _quite_ the sweet tooth. Feel free to try anything that catches your eye."

The King slowly lets his eyes glance over the many stands, displaying foods that he, even in his years, have never seen at all. It’s intriguing, curious, and already he can feel the itch to have the notebooks in his hands. He idly curls his claws once, twice, before walking over to one that seemed to display some odd sort of bread that was impaled on a stick. He pauses for a moment before fishing through the inside of his robes to pull out a small sack, opening it to pull out at least 5 geo, glancing up at the person behind the stands. “Er...Is this method of payment acceptable?”

The bug tilts their head, chuckling softly from behind their mask. "Any payment is acceptable, even none. Especially if you're with the Master."

“Ah, I..I see.” He hesitates for a moment before placing the geo on the table anyway. “Take this anyway, please. I’d feel unwell if I just didn’t give you anything in return.” He tucks the bag back into his robes before glancing toward the sticks of bread, noting how they’re wrapped in a paper bag. “What..are these, exactly?”

"Hm, well, you have crawlids out here right? Imagine that, but less chewy and coated in sweet bread."

“I see...” He slowly picks up one of the paper bags, taking care in grabbing onto the stick and pulling the food out, looking it over for a moment before finally moving to take a bite. At first, all his fangs had met was the soft, cake-like texture of the bread, sweet, with an almost buttery taste to it. It wasn’t until he bite further in that he felt a much more solid, savory texture, that of meat than of bread. It was juicy, the meat left tender and full of flavor, and just the taste of it was enough to make his stomach growl even more. His claws curled harder, and he soon found himself scarfing down the rest of the treat with an almost vicious hunger.

The bug laughs, leaning on their counter with a certain ease not found in most bugs. "Have as much as you need, King. There's plenty more in stock."

"Oh, no, don't eat that, Monomon!" Grimm was suddenly striding toward one of the kiosks decked in a variety of salted fish. "That has jellyfish in i-" He cringes and pulls himself to a halt. "Eugh. Never mind."

"What? It tastes good!"

The vendor sighs, trilling their claws. "No matter how many times we tell him to speak in limits, he always forgets."

“Oh dear.” The King himself winces slightly upon seeing Monomon so casually devour the little dead jellyfish, her tendrils already scooping up at least three more to sample while others wrap around what looks to be that of odd bread-covered rings. “That...I’m not even going to question the ethical conundrum that’s happening there.”

"Eh, plenty of jellyfish are cannibalistic, especially the ones out east. They simply... don't do it in front of others. And typically only when food runs short. Which reminds me..." They pull back and look below their desk, muttering to themself, but not bothering to hide their words. "Brumm better be keeping that Child under control, growth spurts be damned."

The King blinks at that, and he tilts his head. “...Child?”

"There's always a Child." They don't say anything more before kneeling to heft a box of food onto the counter.

“...A child as in, a grub?” The King frowns a bit harder, thoroughly confused. Either the Troupe themselves were rearing their own children or, presumably, they kept _finding_ them.

The bug laughs again. "A Child as in _a Child_. Grub. Tch. If only."

"I found Divine!"

"Oh my _gods_ , he's still as short as I remember."

The King immediately deflated upon hearing that voice, his shoulders dropping, letting out a sigh as he turns around, only to get yanked off the ground under his arms by strong talons, his eyes meeting the wide, grinning face of the now half-masked third-in-command. The King crosses his arms as best he can, giving her a glare. “And you haven’t aged a day, Divine, which is saying something considering I’m sure you’re as old as a web-covered hag.” 

Divine lets out a chuckle, her eye narrowing. “Oh, you always know what to say. It’s _cute_.”

"Play nice you two." Grimm sighs lightly, though he's smiling. "And watch out for the wheelers behind you!"

"We have this under control, Master!" A lithe figure spinning in and out of a double hooped wheel rockets across the ground, alternately rolling with the contraption and seamlessly navigating it with the slightest of touches.

Another wheel follows them, the bug within scoffing and all but _vaulting_ out of the wheel and walking along the rungs pinning the hoops together. "Honestly, after all this time, you'd expect he'd know better, wouldn't you, sister dear?"

"Just don't run into any tents this time. Or any of our guests!"

"Yes, boss." The walking bug sighs, falling into the wheel with a pose more fitted for a recliner, the bars catching them and the wheel whisking off after their sister.

The King can hear his Lady crying out in both shock and delight at such a strange sight, and he can’t help but smile, a little, before regaining his composure. “Divine, put me down.”

“Aww, I dunno if I wanna. You’re so tiny. I could put you under my arm like a sack of potatoes.” 

“ _Divine_.” 

“Heh. Fine, fine.” She places him down, patting him on the spires softly.

Grimm walks toward them, though he keeps an eye on the kiosks Monomon was snatching food from. "Is Brumm further in, Divine? I can't hear him playing."

“I believe so, Master. I think he’s currently dealing with the-“ She stops, glancing at the King out of the corner of her eye before looking back at Grimm. “...the...ember.” 

The King narrows his eyes a bit at that. “The ember?”

Grimm raised a brow, ignoring the King. "Is it manageable, or does he need help?"

“Haven’t heard any complaints yet, Master. Let’s hope, right?” She winks.

As if on cue, a spout of fire bursts from further within the Troupe, followed by a chorus of dismayed shouts and the sound of... was that... firecrackers? Grimm barely flinches, and merely stares at Divine before slowly shaking his head and closing his eyes. He rubs his face, a full tent catching in the breeze behind him, smoldering and whipping about.

"Well, we were heading that way anyways."

“...Is...Is that...normal?” The King’s eyes are wide with alarm, and even Monomon has paused in eating to watch the chaos.

"Oh, quite normal." Grimm smiles through the ounce of stress creeping into his visage. "Near daily occurrence, if I'm honest. Now, let's go see the damages." He turns and strides forward, his typical, fast, long legged gait suddenly making complete sense. He snaps his fingers in the air twice, the fires extinguishing on the first take and a flock of ghosts swarming him on the second. "Olive, gather the aerialists to attend to the run away tent. Xander, fetch the fire breathers to take care of the fireworks. Boris and Clyde, you know what you have to do. Emily, be a dear and tell Brumm we'll be there in but a few moments."

A small, yet loud voice rings out through the air, a red figure flying out over the smoke, over the ashes and flames, soaring over the tents to circle near to Grimm, but is still too far up for the King to get a good look. “It wasn’t me this time! I swear it! I was far away from anything flammable!”

"Oh, I know that, Talia, dear." Grimm looks up at her as she flies in circles. "How long has it been since you've set anything on fire? Three weeks? Four? That's a new record!"

“Five, at least! Should I keep away from the flames? Should I try and put them out?”

"Can you see if they're from the fireworks that went off, or were they from magic?"

“On it!” She veers off, leaving a visible trail of crimson ashes in her wake, and the King can’t help but follow this strange bug’s descent towards the flames. 

"So, how are you all enjoying yourselves?" Grimm sounds as casual as any other day, but he skips a few steps ahead and cranes his neck as he hears more pops some space away.

“Er...Do these types of..explosions happen often?” The King looks concerned, frowning softly.

“With all these torches around? I wouldn’t doubt if something occasionally caught ablaze.” Monomon muses to herself, sounding just as causal, still munching on the jellyfish snack. 

“Do you want us to help?” The Lady looks unsure, and the roots that grow from her head seem to shrivel in revulsion at the head from the smoke and flame, but she made no move to step away.

"Oh, er..." Grimm glances back at them for a moment, then waves a hand. "No, no. We'll be fine. We're accustomed to fires and little mishaps here and there; bound to happen with such a chaotic group. Just nothing... Quite so big. And the fireworks are strictly off limits, so I don't quite... know...." He trails off for a moment, bending oddly and squinting through the smoke he easily parted with a wave of his hands. In dimmer light such as was kept within the Troupe's grounds, he could see a certain distance farther than the average person. And he could just barely make out a small, little, tendril winged-

"Oh no." He pulls to a halt, eyes darting up and side to side to keep track of the elusive creature. The others stagger to a stop next to him and he becomes acutely aware of the circumstance he was caught in. "Uh. Okay. I'm going to need you all to stay back. As far back as possible. Don't come any closer."

“Are you sure? Why? Is something wrong?” The Lady’s eyes grow wide with alarm, and she attempts to crane her head in order to see more of the flames. “Is someone injured?”

"Oh, no, nothing like that. I just have a..." He cranes his head back, feeling the distant flare of his own magic pulse in his much more distant Heart. A group of ghosts who had been worriedly guiding attempts to secure the tent yelped as the Grimmchild burst through the ranks and promptly divebombed the kin trying to bring them under control. "...personal problem." He instantly sped into motion, loping toward the disaster and swiftly calling over his shoulder, "Invisible to most people, difficult to catch!" without much more explanation.

The King stands there for a few seconds, certainly shocked by how quickly Grimm’s demeanor had changed, how he had seen the flash of worry or even fear in his eyes. Something was wrong, he didn’t quite know why, but he felt it. He looked towards his Lady, who only looked back and nodded. Monomon, on the other hand, shook her head, flailing a free tendril. “I go near those flames, I’ll be like the snacks I’m eating. I have a kid to look after.” 

The King sighs, but turns toward the general direction of the flames nonetheless, and starts to run, his Lady not that far behind, the ground close to shaking from her size, trying her damndest to not run into anything. Grimm turns a corner and disappears as they move to follow him. The smoke comes in waves, something seemingly managing to stave it off for moments at a time, but is relatively thin for how large an explosion they had seen. The vending stations thin out along with the smoke, replaced instead with a wider road and larger, more permanent looking tents, all strung with various colors.

As the King rounds the corner, he finally brings himself to a stop, eyes going wide at the pyre he sees before him. Two tents, up in bright orange flames, crackling and burning, one of them already reduced down to mere vestiges of what it used to be, while the other is still roaring at a great pace. Ghosts were flying around all over the place, members clad in masks were running around trying to gather buckets of water, and many more were simply trying to evade the smoke and heat. There didn’t seem to be anyone too badly injured, but even standing there, the King can feel his eyes sting from the smog, and he winces, head swinging left to right, seeking Grimm.

The White Lady coughs once, shading her eyes from the blaze. "What are they doing, using _water_ for a fire like that!?"

A small bucket is quickly spared for the ashes of the first fire, which for the most part is unwatched aside from two ghosts scanning the area for any embers seeking to jump in the wind. A line of bugs heave several more buckets from a nearby tent marked with a ring of blue - it was all too small for how many bugs came out of it, and further too small for the size of the buckets as well, some being held by two bugs at a time - and the group surrounds the burning tent before simultaneously dumping their water onto it.

" _Where are the firewalkers!?_ "

"Cardigan fell asleep again, so they're trying to wake her up!"

" _Just tell them to find Kevin already_!"

The King can’t help but feel a small part of his stomach twist, not entirely sure of what to do. He doubts he could be much help, though standing by and doing nothing clearly wasn’t an option. He quickly begins to move toward the tent where the workers were gathering the buckets, trying his damndest to not breathe too deeply, already feeling his throat beginning to burn slightly. He manages to duck inside, already feelings cough well up in his chest. “Is-Is anyone in those tents? Did someone not make it out?!”

As soon as the words leave him, he's struck by the sudden sight of row upon row upon row of barrels and buckets and tubs of water, all labeled and placed in various squares and quadrants for certain designations. Here is drinking water, there is bathing and cleaning water, there strangely flavored water, and, lastly and more importantly, _dousing water_. The latter was in steady supply; they weren't going to run out anytime soon.

Three figures, all incredibly lanky and wearing three-eyed masks rimmed with sparkling red, snap up at his voice. They glance at each other, then back at him, then back to each other, and two of them return to their previous task: shaking another bug similarly dressed and snoring as if the camp wasn't currently in flames. The remaining bug steps around them and approaches the foreign King.

"Are you _supposed_ to be here?"

The King finds himself frozen, momentarily tongue-tied, swearing that the tent had been only a few feet wide when he had entered it, not nearly enough to hold the space that seemed to be stored from within. The sight of the strange bugs is enough to make him consciously take a step back, but he thankfully finds his voice soon enough. “I..I was invited here by Grimm, when the explosion went off. I merely want to assist with putting the fire out.”

The bug looks him up and down, not impressed. "Okay, so you aren't supposed to be _here_ , but you're supposed to be here. Got it. Anyone else with you?"

“Er...My wife is outside.” He glances towards the edges of the tent flap, where the flame still burns bright, and he looks back toward the masked bug. “Listen, is now really the time for this sort of squabble?”

"Okay, look. You don't even know enough about the tents to know that the inside doesn't burn at the same rate as the outside, and you're already covered in ash. If you're a guest of the Master, you aren't doing anything that could kill you." She walks around him and pushes him further into the tent, then returns the tent flap and waves the Queen in. "The air is fresher in here. You two will stay in here."

The sudden push is enough to get him to stumble slightly, and though he feels his frustration beginning to grow, enough for him to let out a growl, his words die in his throat the moment he turns to see the figure of his wife approaching from what little he can see out of the flap, her form bent over, coughing into her hand, her roots and branches practically shriveling from the heat. He feels his stomach twist again, a bit harder, but he stills his tongue. He had nearly forgotten about his beloved.

The Lady soon makes her way into the relative safety of the tent, her hands hard at work trying to brush the ashes off of her skin, coughing a bit harder than before, before glancing at her husband. “My dear...Are you alright?” 

“Yes, yes, I’m fine...What about you?”

“The..My roots are a bit choked up right now, but I can deal with it. Nothing too bad.” She stifles another cough. “Grimm’s flames are....much more potent than I remembered.”

"The Master's magic is nothing to be trifled with." The same bug scans the squares of water and hurries to a section of small jugs of drinkable water. She flips through a few tags before pulling one and bring it back to them. "Drink this. It'll help."

One of the others groans loudly and hastily cups a handful of water and flings it at the sleeping bug. "For nightmares' sake, _wake up_ , Cardigan!"

The bug cringes, and snores again.

"Gods above and below."

The King’s eyes stray to the sleeping bug, raising an eyebrow. “...I assume them sleeping so deeply is...not normal?”

"No, it's entirely normal, merely not very _opportune_." They tap their chin. "Okay, fine, we either get Kevin, or we try the trifold. Kevin, trifold. Kevin, trifold."

"Kevin freaked last time."

"And the trifold is ridiculous to manage."

"It's not like one of us can hold two ends. No one else can simply stand near fire like that."

"Especially with those rockets going off at random."

"Which is why we need the trifold! It's quick, and we don't have time."

"The trifold doesn't cover things-"

The tent flap lifted again, a meek-looking, stocky bug ducking inside. His eyes fall on the King and Queen of Hallownest, whatever words that had been forming instantly dying on his tongue as he cast confused looks at the firewalkers.

"Well, Kevin's decided for us. The tarp it is."

The King and Queen are both silent, merely watching this argument unfold, and though the King still feels like sitting here and doing nothing is the last thing he should do, he also can’t help but realize that he probably couldn’t be much help here at all. If anything, he would either end up getting burnt, or possibly worse. It was a bitter pill to swallow, and he can’t help but sigh to himself, even as he sips at the cup of water he had been given.

"W-wait. Are you sure we should-" The meek bug glances around, watching the others grab a large, thick blanket from a crate near the dousing water. "I don't know if I can-"

"All you'll be doing is holding a corner, Kevin. The rest of us will do the running." The seeming leader of the group pushes him out of the tent ahead of the other two. She turns to the King and Queen. "Make sure the Madam gets more than you do." She ducks out before either of them could respond.

The King watches them all leave, before letting out a sigh. “Well, that went _splendidly_.”

“My dear Wyrm, if I haven’t known you for as long as I have, I would’ve mistaken that tone for sarcasm.” She smirks a bit, tiredly

He sighs softly, walking close to lean against her, letting his magic slowly ebb into her own in hopes of aiding her clenching branches. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“I forgot that you’re sensitive to flames, and I made you charge practically head first into an inferno.”

"I made the decision to charge in after you." She chuckles, but the sound is accented with small coughs. "I didn't expect it to be quite so hot."

“I know from experience that it can get hotter. Be thankful it wasn’t that of Grimm’s true flames.” His eyes flutter closed for a moment, and in that moment, a deep exhaustion seems to hit him like a brick, and he sags against his Lady’s side. “...I’m sorry.....for everything.”

"Darling?" She holds him, carefully lowering the both of them to the floor. "What are you talking about?"

“I...I’m...” He goes quiet, and he isn’t quite sure how to explain it all. His body feels heavy, weighted, as if his carapace were made of stone, his mind feeling like nothing more than a buzzing static of dread, of fear, of hopelessness and an innumerable level of exhaustion. He was just...so tired. So very tired. Everything felt like a dim buzzing on the edge of his mind, and his heart beat so heavily, so sluggishly, that he swore it would simply snap from it’s arteries and plop into his gut. He recalled the way his love had smiled at him when he had awoken, how she seemed so sure that things were beginning to grow better, and a bitter, twisted vine seems to spear through his heart. He turns his head to bury it against her skin, not saying a word, merely focusing on their connection, just wanting to let the feelings flow so he wouldn’t have to take the form of words. Ash still clung to his throat.

The White Lady hums lightly, eyes pricking as the emotions filter through, and gently brushes his cheek and pulls him closer. She would be lying if she said she didn't have some similar sentiment in herself, but she was still surprised by the pure strength behind the King's feelings. She brought her head down to nuzzle his forehead. "We'll get through this. After today, we can breathe more easily. Just wait and see. The moment we place those torches, we'll be in a better place. Then we can return to work with a clearer mind."

“...I can only hope that what you say is true, my dear.” He manages to blink away a few tears that dared to rise up, merely letting himself sigh and lean into the embrace, another somber thought reaching into his head, spurned by the deep sadness he feels, blooming within his mind like a flower. “...I have not considered your emotions throughout all of this...How you were feeling...”

"Perhaps a touch more angry than you, but not for the same reasons." She rests her head against him, all but enveloping him in her grasp. "Not seeing you for so long, not telling me of your plans..." She laughs again, and this time it's clearer, but more bitter. "You could almost call me jealous. And then the traitors in our midst... I can barely remember the speech I made at that trial. That anything would try to come between us, and us and our people, especially for such foolish reasons, when all we try to do is create peace and guidance...." She traces small patterns along his face. "It isn't fair. It certainly isn't right. If ever there was a reason for us to exist... those beings as we came from, I suppose... Well, they're lucky I've lain down my sword. I'd set things right in an instant if things were otherwise."

Such words, coming from his Lady, were not so shocking as to be surprising; he could feel it, in their minds, the crackling haze of anger and frustration, of sheer _contempt_ at how the world seemed to be dealing them such an unfair hand, such abysmally low chances in a game of fate and chance, such as this. Godly power struggles, even ones so abstract and driven out, like this one, never ended with the aid of good intentions. It always ended in absolute bloodshed, one way or the other, and though he was the one to have slain the witch that had once plagued them, he was _certain_ that his lovely Lady would be the next to do so, were it even possible. 

He nods softly, letting his claws stroke along her arm, gently. “I have no doubts in my mind of that. Your fury makes mine look like that of a lightshow.”

"Lightshows _are_ cute." She smirks and nuzzles him.

He can’t help but flush at that, turning his head away so that the connection isn’t as palpable between them now, his voice a soft growl that lacks any real malice, rather that of flustered irritation. “That is _quite enough_ , we are in the middle of Troupe grounds, lest I remind you of that.”

She laughs loudly, swiftly moving to stifle herself, and snickers at the barest flare of embarrassment that still managed to leak through to her. "Oh, please, I bet you Grimm would _love_ to see you so red in the face."

“I swear I will march straight into the fire just so I don’t have to listen to your drivel anymore. You speak nothing but lies. Sheer fallacies. I will refuse to listen to them anymore.” He turns away, flushing even harder, crossing his arms and pulling his legs to his chest.

"I'll hold you close then, and make sure you don't put yourself in harm's way." She loops her arms around him and holds him closer with the full knowledge that she could simply stand and carry him without his feet touching the ground.

He deflates into her arms, his face mellowing into a more embarrassed look, cheeks still red. “Honey, please don’t start carrying me everywhere. Divine already picked me up once today, I don’t need anyone doing it too.”

"I won't, I won't." She giggles, relaxing her hold. "Simply teasing, my love."

“Good.” He sighs, finally turning his head to glance towards what little he can see of the outside through the flap in the tent’s entrance. “..You can feel the heat more than I can, yes? Does the fire seem to be dying?”

"I'd say so. It's not as intense as before. But it is a lot cooler in here than out there." She looks about at the strange size of the tent. "I wonder how he does it."

“Probably some form of magic. Remember how Enkay used to be able to hide objects in his cloak? Like a bouquet of flowers or a bottle of wine or other strange things. Perhaps it operates on similar logic.”

“Well, I’m sure a tent being bigger on the inside than on the outside is also against physics. I just don’t have any other answer to give for such a thing.”

"Hmm." She continues gazing about the room for a while longer. "Should we see how they're doing?"

He reaches up to let a claw run across one of her branches. “Are you sure of that? You still feel a little dry.”

"I could do with a moment longer, I suppose. This water is oddly satisfying." She lifts the jug they had been given and finds the tag. "E-G-W. What does that mean?"

He frowns slightly at that, tilting his head. “I..I do not know. Labeling water jugs? That sounds...remarkably odd.”

"Certainly. We should ask him about that when he's done dealing with... whatever he's dealing with."

The King nods softly, before slowly standing up, walking towards the flap of the tent. “I’m going to take a peek outside then, just to see if they’re making any progress. You stay here.” 

He slowly lifts up the flap and steps out into the hot, ash-swept air, and he has to squint in order to see past the smoke, the dark fog that seems to have swept over the air like the very clouds above. The first tent was now practically a charred mess of utter rubble while the other seemed to be slowly dying down, the flames nothing more than lashing tongues of what was once a roaring pyre. He could see the figures of the three-eyed masks stalking through the coals, meticulously moving a large black tarp around the rest of the carnage, moving in a sort of practiced synchronicity that is almost remnant of dancers. He finally directs his attention to the sky where the Grimmkin seemed to swirling and looping around in great shows of finesse, and he narrows his eyes, swearing he could see...something else among them. A black shape, thin, small, and...being chased?

Whatever was chasing the smaller being was larger, and arguably much more skilled in flight than the other, but the sharper movements kept them barely out of arm's reach. They spiraled into the sky, moving higher into the mountaintops. The larger broke formation and snuck under the smaller, hugging the cliff face and forcing the little speck to turn back toward the camp. A few other bugs had stopped what they were doing to watch the evasive tactics, shoulders taught and mouths slightly agape. A rake and pan slips from the fingers of a nearby bug.

"It... should _not_ be able to fly that fast."

The King can’t help but frown in utter confusion as to what he was witnessing, almost feeling tempted to spread his own wings and fly up to join the chase, just to see why it was even happening. “What is _it_? What are you talking about?”

They startle slightly, staring at the King for a long moment before returning his gaze to the chase. "The bigger one is Master Grimm. I've never seen anyone outfly him."

The King can’t help but feel even more confused, watching as Grimm keeps on twisting and looping and _diving_ in an absolutely _frenzied_ effort to narrow in on the strange black mass. It almost reminded him of...he winces and shakes his head of the thought, looking down for a moment to rub over his eyes. Best not to think about that. It would be best if he just forgot that ever happened.

The two suddenly plunge, plummeting in a death defying drop, spiraling around each other. A murmur runs over the crowd, and the White Lady peeks her head outside the tent. She follows everyone's gaze. The silhouettes become larger and larger, picking up more and more speed.

"They're divebombing. What are they-"

"They aren't divebombing, they're-"

" _MAKE A HOLE_!"

Everyone in the road shouts, pushing each other away from the center and into the edges if not into still-standing tents. The figures seem to slow and halt just above the heads of the scrambling crowd. Then, all at once, they speed down the narrow lane, one tailing just behind the other.

The King can barely register what exactly happens next. One moment he’s standing there, watching with sheer alarm as everyone dives out of the way, and the next, he finds his vision blurring, swirling, ears ringing with meaningless noise and his senses left to rattle and shake with no meaning  left in his mind. He finds himself finally on his back, heart pounding in his ears, his head, vision left dark, blurry, and though he now has regained awareness of his body, he finds that he cannot move, feeling...pinned, almost, beneath a heavy weight. He can’t help but groan, softly, eyes straining to try and see, blinking, blinking rapidly. “Ugh...”

A responding groan answers him, and the weight rolls off him. The sky comes into focus for the King, shortly followed by thin, black arms and claws clutching a small, squirming bug with an eerily familiar face. It didn't have _limbs_ so much as odd tendrils, and its eyes didn't glow, but the similarities....

" _Never. Again_." Grimm huffs tiredly and drops his arms. The Child relaxes with a soft squeak and cuddles against his chest. He closes his eyes and rests both hands over their back, not trusting it to try flying off another cliff. "Never again."

It takes a good few seconds for the King to process what he’s seeing. It takes a good few seconds more for him to finally peel himself off of the ground, able to _feel_ the pain lancing through his wings as they weakly flutter, and he winces, hissing slightly through his teeth. “Ah...Ow, ow, ow...” He clenches his fists, focusing on the damage, on the torn membrane, feeling the injuries slowly beginning to stitch themselves shut, before finally turning to look at Grimm, eyes wide with surprise. “...Grimm...You......You have a...child?”

Grimm exhales, absently rubbing the little one's head with a thumb. They cuddle closer and purr, watching the Pale King curiously. "Yeah. Didn't want you to know. Personal reasons." He peeks an eye open. "Are you alright? We hit you pretty hard."

He doesn’t speak for a moment, rubbing the back of his head where he felt a dull throbbing sensation, before shaking his head. “No, no, I’m fine. Just...knocked the wind out of me is all.” He can’t help but lean in a bit closer, just to take a look at the little creature. “..It looks almost identical to you.”

"They tend to look like their parent." Grimm watches him closely, still not moving from his graveyard pose on the ground.

Grimmchild stretches their neck out to peer back at the King, then trills lightly. "Nyeh!"

"No, you cannot chew on the strange man's spike head. And it's a crown, not..." He sighs lightly and lets the matter drop, raising a hand up to the King. "Help me up?"

The King can’t help but blink at Grimm’s comment about his “spike head”, but lets out a sigh as he reaches out to grip his hand, the both of them hauling themselves back up to their feet. The King can’t help but slowly bring a hand near the Child, his heart aching softly. “I...It’s so small...”

"Ah." Grimm steps back instinctively, frowning at him. The bugs that had thronged the streets now circled near them, a few looking severely anxious and others wincing at their Troupe Master's reaction. He was always protective. Always.

The King stares for a moment, his face overcome with an almost hurt expression, before the memories come flooding back. A vicious pile of black, mixed with vestiges of ash, flailing around on the ceiling like it was trying to take the form of something but didn’t quite know how it was meant to be done. How it screamed and screeched and cried as Grimm burned it to death in his claws, and how his eyes were full of rage when they turned on him. 

He flinches, and his hand retracts to his chest, looking away. Of course.... Grimm didn’t trust him. Not after that. Not with something so clearly precious as a child.

"You put your hand out like that and they'll bite your fingers off." Grimm smirks and raises a brow. "Palm up. And they like chin scratches."

That gets him to blink, and he looks back towards him. “...W...What?” 

The crowd that had gathered look similarly surprised.

His grin turns sheepish. "I know things have been... a bit tenuous with us recently, and it's generally strange for us to let anyone know of my Child, but..." He peers at him and steps forward, however gingerly. "They seem to like you already."

The King stares for a few moments longer before glancing down at the Child, before slowly moving a hand towards it, palm up as instructed. He glances at Grimm, eyes shifting back and forth between him and the Child. “...Do they have a name?”

"Merely the Grimmchild or the Child," he says softly. "They'll choose their own name when they’re grown."

The Child in question reaches out toward the King's hand, sniffing curiously before merely dropping their chin onto his fingers. The sight gets the King to smile, and it wasn’t a soft or restrained smile, it was a smile that he had no choice but to let go, a smile that made his lips stretch so wide that it almost started to hurt, and the chuckle he let out as he began to gently scratch the Child’s chin is enough to make that smile grow even more vibrant. It seemed like, in that moment, a weight was lifted off of his shoulders, a levity came to those dark, tired eyes, to his pale, sorrowful face, and somehow Grimm got the impression that this was the happiest he had seen the King for the entirety of having known him.

Grimm smiles softly, watching as the Child's eyes drooped at the small scratches. "Do you want to hold them? There are a few fires I should put out."

That gets the King to pause for a moment, the grin fading away with that of mild surprise, before slowly nodding. “Uh...Of course. Um...” He looks sheepish now. “...I...don’t know how to exactly...hold a youngling...”

"They're practically falling asleep after all that running around. Just bring them close to your shoulder, and..." He gently pulls the Child from his cloak, getting a small squeak of protest, and gently puts them on the King's shoulder, guiding one of his hands to hold the Child's back. They make a small noise, claws seeming to paw at the material of his robes for a moment before settling, their chin resting on his shoulder.

The King stands motionless, almost frozen stiff, but as they feel the Child nestle against his shoulder, the smile comes back, vibrant and so very bright, to the point where it makes his face seem like it’s glowing. 

The Lady slowly emerges from the tent flap, her eyes widening upon seeing the little creature, her hands moving to cover her mouth as a large smile overtakes her face, just as vibrant as her beloved’s. “Oh, Grimm… It’s so small… It’s so beautiful...”

"They are absolutely adorable." He smiles softly, watching his Child warmly. The Child opens its large black eyes to take in the newcomer, shifting its head toward her and making another small, "Nyeh" sound. The Lady walks closer, reaching out to stroke the top of the little one’s head, to which it merely purrs and leans into her palm, purring softly all the while, it’s little tail wagging idly against the King’s chest. They seemed to enjoy the attention.

It was only then that the crowd began to shift, quickly moving aside in an almost eerie unity as a familiar masked figure finally emerges, expression looking stressed, worried. “Master! Are you alright? I saw you fall and-“ He pauses upon seeing the Child in the hands of the King, and his face changes from panicked to absolutely shocked. His eyes are quick to dart back and forth between his Lord and the King, words dying in his throat.

"Well, good news: we caught our Child." Grimm splays his hands with a light shrug, playing the shock off. "And also good news: fire's out." He snaps his fingers and the embers still gusting about the camp flicker out entirely, the smoke dissipating shortly thereafter. "And no one got hurt."

“I...Um...” Brumm still doesn’t speak for a moment, but then slowly nods, letting out a sigh. “That’s...a relief to hear. Mrm.” He turns to look at the King, and for a moment, his eyes narrow, looking him over intently. “Mrm....You’ve certainly gained quite the strength since we last locked eyes, Wyrm.” 

The King nods back, not wanting to bow with the child in his arms. “And I see you haven’t aged a day. Quite remarkable.”

“Tis the gift of our Master’s flame.” There was another moment of silence. “...You still haven’t gotten any taller, I see.” 

That gets the King to sigh, looking a touch irritated. “Divine said the same thing.” 

He smirks back. “I’m sure she did. Forgive me for pointing out the obvious.”

"Everyone with their in-jokes these days." Grimm shakes his head and turns to the crowd still surrounding them, hands clapping together. "Well! I believe the excitement for the day is over, for the most part. Feel free to continue about your duties, everyone. Our guests have some important business to discuss with me. We'll be near the center circle if anyone has need of us."

There was a soft murmur that arose through the crowd, but soon, all of who had gathered begin to disperse, ghosts of all shapes and sizes moving in to start collecting all of the ash and the burnt remains of the destroyed tents. The King finally turns to face Grimm again, nodding softly. “Yes...While I would love to see the rest of what you have to offer here, I’m afraid that we must continue with what we came here for.”

Brumm frowns at that, and he folds his arms. “And what business would that be?”

"Setting our torches within his kingdom," Grimm says matter of factly, gingerly bringing a hand to his Child and scooping them back into his arms. "It should help with the infection plaguing them."

That gets Brumm to turn to face Grimm, a look of pure shock going over his face, confusion and worry mixing in all at once. “B-But, Master, to lay a torch in these grounds would...” He casts a glance at the King before walking close to whisper. “It would mark these grounds for the flames of the Ritual...”

"Yes, and I've told them as such." He sighs lightly, quieting his voice more for the Child's sake than their secret's. "Things have... quite seriously advanced since last I was here. The Shade Lord and my sister lay in the same place. You know how dangerous that could be."

Something in his mask seems to deepen into that of pure horror, and for a moment, all the flames surrounding the grounds seem to dim, ever so slightly. “...The...Shade Lord has arisen?”

“Momentarily." Grimm peers at the Pale King out of the corner of his eyes, absently soothing the Grimmchild with the weight of a hand. "As far as I can tell, they're as stuck in limbo as the Radiance is, though oddly silent unless called upon. They can't do anything at the moment, but, well... I don't believe our maps have any masses of Void quite the size as lies under Hallownest."

“How big is it? I.... _We_ need to know.”

He considers it for a moment, tilting his head back. "It took about four seconds for the King to fall into it. In length..." He turns around, looking at the tents around them. "Er, perhaps... to the burning tents to... this one here across. So seven tents. And at least that much far away as well. No telling how deep it was, but the Shade Lord was able to manifest without touching the ceiling." His head bends back, following the approximate height at which the eyes had stood.

“Oh Great Flames...” Brumm practically feels his knees wobble, and he has to actually take a step back in order to steady himself, looking almost stricken with fear. He glances back towards the King, before starting to gently, yet persistently push Grimm away. “We need to talk. We need to talk right now.”

Grimm goes along with him, though he raises a brow slightly. "It isn't particularly good manners to leave guests unattended, dear Brumm."

“They’ve waited this long, they can wait a bit more.” He casts a glance back at the King, who, though confused, holds out a hand so that the Lady doesn’t follow. Once at a better distance, he turns Grimm back around, taking a deep breath before starting to talk. “Are...Are you sure of this, Master? First the Light rising from the dead, and now the Darkness from below? This whole landscape could turn into an absolute apocalypse at the drop of a hat. Lighting the flames, planting the torches, cursing the soil with the contract of the Ritual...What if that’s the trigger? What if it only furthers the damnation of the Wyrm? What if it damns _us?_ ”

"It won't, I'm sure." He puts a hand on Brumm's shoulder. "We need the torches lit, surely, but not _all_ of them. I'll leave one unlit. That way, the contract won't be made in full, and time can bide its way. As for the two gods here...." He looks aside, as if working math through the air. "I don't think it... there's a feeling about it all. The Shade Lord is an Old One. If they wanted to wake, they'd wake. My sister..." He scowls for a moment. "She's the more current threat. Do you remember that necromancer we found in the southern mountain ridges?"

He stares for a moment, and he shudders, his expression turning into disgust and that of dim horror. “Yes....He had slaughtered an entire village...Kept the bodies as decorations or slaves...”

"She's doing that but _worse_ , right here." He points toward the kingdom hidden by the mountain they rested on. "Poisoning their dreams and taking their bodies for her own, all to use against the King for past grievances. He has a proper idea to capture her once and for all, but he needs time. His people need time. All I have to do is give everyone nightmares for a little while. It's the least I can do."

Brumm can’t help but stare off into the distance, at the glimmering lights of Hallownest, his expression softening just a touch. “...What is this idea?”

"Well, if everyone is having nightmares, they aren't having dreams. Her influence would be cut off, momentarily, which gives the King time to fulfill his duties. He..." Grimm hesitates, not meeting Brumm's eyes. "He's figured out that you could combine Void with godly essence. He wants to use the Void and his own essence to create a... vessel of sorts to hold the Radiance."

“Use the Void?!” He practically shouts, and several people look over in confusion. He flinches, before leaning down to whisper furiously. “Master, with all due respect, are you out of your mind?! Why would you _ever_ trust the Wyrm with an idea so _awful_?!”

"B-Because it-" Grimm leans closer as well, stammering and fumbling with his hushed words. "Because it _worked_. With my ashes. Not entirely consensually - I know, I know, don't give me that look. It sounds a lot worse-" He exhales. "Okay, it's still really bad, just, hear me out, alright?"

Brumm pauses, and for a moment, a single moment, he’s tempted to march right over to that _despicable_ Wyrm and rip off that _hideous_ crown for even so much as daring to _defile_ the Master in such an awful way. But then, he feels a soft presence, a looming shadow, in the very back of his mind, whispering to him, that to commit such an act would offer...consequences. It didn’t specify what kind. It merely left it up to imagination. He shuddered, softly, and was quick to let his rage die down in the wake of it’s graceful, gracious visage. It offered him guidance, and to disregard such would be a sin to horrible to even think of. 

His shoulders slump, and he lets out a sigh. “...Alright.”

"To be quite fair, I nearly broke his spine telling him off about it." Grimm huffs slightly, looking aside. "The resulting... creation was rather similar in shape to our own..." He gives the Child a look. They were happily nestled against him, almost snoring in sleep. "It wasn't... right. Like it was missing something. But I could sense it... adapting to my power.” He pauses, rubbing between the Child’s horns, eyes growing distant. “I had to kill it."

Brumm can’t help but feel absolute horror, welling up in his gut like that of a vile poison, burning his veins, his flesh, and it takes all he can muster up in order to not let the rage bubble up again. He can feel its anger, feel its rage against the absolute _blasphemy_ the Wyrm has committed, but yet, somehow, in it’s mercy, it was able to hold back. He must do the same. “I...Master...” His fists clench, once, twice, and it growls a warning, just as soft, but tinged with _something else_.

"I - I know." Grimm gently takes one of his hands, squeezing in his own remorse. "I've had some time to consider it, though. What it meant. The King won't be doing something like that with _my_ essence. I've made that clear. But if he uses his own, and a similar result comes...." He shakes his head. "Brumm, he's a _Soul_ god. A healer. Practically the opposite to the Void itself. If those two were to bind, both powers of Void and Soul... such a trap is not easy to free oneself from."

“Soul can easily become a weapon, too, Master...It is volatile and deadly as it is a force of life...” He looks Grimm dead in the eye. “Are you absolutely _sure_ , Master, that this plan of his will work?”

"I think it's the best and only plan they have.”

He stares, stares hard, finally feeling its presence fading away from his mind, and though he loathes to admit it, the way it coos and praises in his ears is enough to make his fists clench ever so slightly. Finally, he sighs, and relaxes, stepping back. “Very well, Master...Shall I prepare the torches?”

"That would be much appreciated, yes. Fourteen, per usual." Grimm straightens, not quite realizing how close he had gotten during their discussion, and, quite honestly, not minding it. His hand slides out of Brumm's as an afterthought. "There's another matter to be discussed, but we can go over that in time."

“What is it? If it’s something that needs to be discussed, I’d rather hear it now.”

"The Pale King wishes to speak with-" He pointed at himself. "-the Nightmare King. Do you remember the ritual?"

He feels a small part of himself shudder, and it’s only then that he realizes how close he is to Grimm. He takes a step back, and nods, softly. “I could never forget, Master.”

"Apparently the King still has a..." He glances toward the King, and then quickly away as their eyes meet. "He spared one of the Moths, a dream weaver, I assume, that he calls the Seer."

His blood chills ever so slightly, and he has to bring himself to not start screaming. “He-...He has a _moth_ ? In his kingdom? How do we know she isn’t _responsible_ for all of this?!”

He frowns. "As much as I would _like_ to blame it on one of her followers, something as terrible as this is... it's beyond mortal hands, even those as close to an outer realm as a moth. The ailment is entirely godly. Not a hint of help otherwise."

“Hmph....So you expect me to share the secrets of our most precious Ritual with that of _her_ kind?”

"What?" His face twists. " _No_ , no, not _the_ Ritual. The other one. The one about the Nightmare Realm? She should already know it, but I want you present for it. In case... Just in case." Something like shame creeps into his features.

“...In case He decides to attack the Wyrm, Master?”

"In case of anything.” He says it too fast. “Us merely being in the presence of a moth is a recipe for disaster, no matter who lets off the first blow."

“Mrm....” He sighs softly, and nods. “I understand, Master. Tell the Wyrm I’ll agree to the audience with this...Seer.”

"Good. Very good." He nods and smiles again. "I'll inform them of the goings on."

“Very well.” He hesitates for a moment, before resting a hand on Grimm’s shoulder, giving it a tender squeeze. “Be safe, alright?” He turns to walk away, gait almost hasty.

Grimm tilts his head, watching him for a moment. Be safe? He _is_ safe. And it isn't as if he's useless in a fight either. He could hold his own. He'd done it before.

 _But Enkay hadn't_.

He shivers at the thought, its voice not entirely his own. It was true. Enkay hadn't survived his last fight. These were even the same mountains he was said to have died on. The same where Grimm, as a Child, had somehow.... He shakes his head, ridding himself of the thoughts. He had guests to host. Ruminating could wait. He turns and walks back to the King and Queen he had so rudely left behind.

The King was standing there patiently, even as the lingering ash began to settle upon the edges of his robes, raising a brow as soon as Grimm is within earshot. “Is there something wrong? Brumm seemed quite concerned.”

"He's always concerned about one thing or another." He waves a hand, though it doesn't feel entirely genuine. "Getting involved in godly matters is something he doesn't particularly enjoy. Poor history with it, all of us."

“Hmm..I see. Seems like he hasn’t changed much, in that regard, then. Enkay always used to try and get him to relax.” He smiles at the memory, eyes trailing off a bit. “He’d even drag me into helping him figure out ways to get Brumm to smile. It was positively adorable. One might’ve said that he was lovesick.”

"Lovesick?" The word catches in his throat and he coughs, face flushing suddenly at more than just the foolish stumble. The Child grumbles, wings (limbs?) fluttering slightly. He clears his throat and shakes his head vigorously. "Excuse me."

“Well, yes.” He raises a brow. “Does that...surprise you?”

"Not - well, no, not particularly. I simply..." His wrist spins. "It's a strange topic for me. I try not to think about it."

“Ah...Yes, of course.” He blushes slightly, clearing his throat. “So...What exactly must be done with the torches? I know they have to be planted in a discreet location, but, what else is there?”

"They need to be lit by someone, preferably not a god. Brumm can do it, if need be, or someone else, but I should be there to watch them just in case. And that other matter you spoke to me about - will that be soon, or set for another date?"

The King pauses for a moment, before shaking his head. “It must be done as soon as possible. That’s all I know.”

"I'd prefer it done as soon as possible, if permitted. With the torches placed, I'll..." He frowns at him, almost squinting."I..." He blinks a few times, then bristles and looks around. "What in the blazes...?"

The King blinks, looking utterly baffled at Grimm’s sudden change in mood. “What are you doing? What’s wrong?”

"My magic..." He trails off again, squinting more and spinning in a circle. "Hmm. King, would you watch over our Child for a moment? There appears to be more theatrics for tonight..."

He blinks again, and this time his expression grows troubled. “Of course.”

The Grimmchild grumbles as they're moved yet again, and peers at their father as he turns this way and that. The King himself slowly lifts up his head to survey the sky for a moment, eyes creeping over the edges of the cliffs that surround them, already starting to feel his heart beating just a touch harder, growing more and more wary with every passing second. Finally, he sees it, a mass of flailing limbs, bright burning embers, and flapping wings, rapidly plummeting down toward the ground, not heading quite towards them, but a little ways away.

Grimm's eyes catch on it just as he does, and he blinks slightly. "Oh. That won't do. Pardon me for a moment."

He vanishes in a cloud of dust, reappearing just ahead of the plummeting mass, and reaches his claws out to grab the collars of the two bugs sparring in midair. He tears them apart, using their momentary whiplash to his own gain.

"What is going on here?"

In his left hand, he sees the form of Talia, her frilled, bird-like mask knocked askew to expose a crimson eye, glowing with rage, a shallow cut just above the socket that left the surrounding fur soaked with blood, still trying to reach out to claw the other bug despite being held by the scruff, trickles of bright hot embers falling down from the tips of her wings with every move she makes. Her mandibles were open, her teeth bared in a snarl of rage, and from behind those vicious fangs came an eerie light, bright, blood-red, shining forth from her maw like the rays of the sun poking through the clouds. Her abdomen pulsed rapidly with a dull crimson glow, sounding akin to a heartbeat, and as she speaks, the light grows a bit brighter. “He - he’s an intruder! He was scaling the walls! Trying to sneak in! I saw him and I tried to grab him, but he pulled out a knife to _stab_ me! Almost took my damn eye out!” 

In his right hand, he would see a Mantis, holding what looked to be a bloody dagger  in one hand, while the other was merely holding what looked to be a pair of binoculars. He looked to be clad in little more than a dark cloak, looking ratty and torn, while his eye contained a deep, rather noticeable scar. He wasn’t flailing in anger like Talia was, but rather glaring with an expression of downright _venomous_ malice. “I’m not a _spy_ , you loathsome gnat! I’m a scientist of Hallownest! I came down here because I saw the explosion from a distance and went to investigate! The _Pale King_ is down here! I had to make sure he wasn’t injured!”

"Ah, ah!"  Grimm holds them both a bit higher. "Talia, thank you for being so attentive, but next time, please follow protocols. We want as few injuries as possible. Can you fly still?"

She growls a bit harder, but her wings flap hard, and a puff of embers is sent spiraling through the air. “Yeah, my wings are still good. Haven’t burnt through them.”

"Good. Good." He turns to the other bug. "And your name?"

The mantis narrows his good eye on him. "Podzol."

"Podzol." He grins all too sweetly. "I appreciate your enthusiasm and dedication to your king, but I hope you know I have a strict _no fighting_ policy within my domain."

“Good thing I wasn't in your domain then. Nor was I the first to start the fight." He raises his chin, daring the god to challenge him.

Grimm goes silent for a moment, eyes narrowing. "I don't believe you understand. My people _are_ my domain."

“I can kill him. I can burn him alive. Just give me the word.” Talia narrows her eyes, and for a moment, a tongue of flame briefly dances against her teeth.

"No, no, none of that." He sighs, lifting Podzol an inch. "He cares so much about his King, then his King will give him his punishment. I'll make sure it's more than nothing, but he should count himself lucky I have such a history here."

Podzol scowls at him. "Such idle threats-"

"Such idle threats come less idly when a creature of my stature has been able to gaze upon your soul." Grimm's eyes narrow again. "I can see you and find you wherever you go now. Do well to remember that."

Podzol’s face twitches ever so slightly, and his scowl only deepens, but he says nothing. Talia lets out a growl but the flicker of flame recedes from her teeth, and she stubbornly looks away. “Hmph. Should string him up by his horns.”

Grimm ignores the comment, choosing instead to teleport them back to the King's side. He lets go of Talia, gently setting her on the ground, and passively lets Podzol's legs thump and crumple next to him. He keeps a tight hold on his collar.

“One of yours, dear King?"

The King, having been watching the strange encounter as best as he could from where he stood, jolts back in surprise from how quickly Grimm appeared again, watching as he daintily sets what looks to be a fuzzy black gnat on the ground, while holding another bug up by the back of his cloak like it was a scruff. His eyes widen upon recognizing the scarred eye, and he blinks in confusion. “...Podzol, yes? What on earth are you doing down here?”

"Scaling cliffs and attacking my kin, it appears." Grimm snaps his fingers and a small spark flares in the mantis' palm. He hisses and drops the bloody knife.

"She jumped me," Podzol growls, pulling his feet back under him. "I was coming to check on my King. We could see the explosion even from all the way down there. I thought something happened."

That gets the King to pause, eyes drifting towards Podzol as he nods, face rather stern, yet lacking any malice. “I see..” He looks back up towards Grimm. “I am terribly sorry for this, Grimm. If I had known he would’ve tried to sneak up here, I never would’ve allowed it.” He glances towards Talia. “Please, allow me to heal whatever wound he’s done.” 

She waves a claw absentmindedly as she affixes her mask back on her face. “Nah, nah, it’s fine. I’ve had worse. I’m only pissed about it because he almost got my eye. I’ll live with it.”

“I see...And you are?” 

She grins, and the abysmal light that leaks between her teeth is hauntingly amplified. She makes a dramatic bowing gesture, wings flapping, creating a cloud of smoldering embers. “The name is Talia, monarch. Talia the Flame Demon, if you want to know my stage name.” She chuckles a bit as she straightens up. “Bet you can’t guess why.”

Grimm, seeing the small bug's change in mood, deftly releases Podzol and subtly nudges him toward the King and Queen. Podzol gives him a short look, one brow raised and one eye narrowed, and naturally moves toward his rulers.

“Er...” The King looks a bit unsure as to how to answer, eyes flicking back and forth between her and Grimm, noting how quickly Grimm had let go of Podzol once Talia had mentioned her stage performance. “...You’re right. I can’t.” 

Talia’s grin almost grows vicious, and she lets out a wicked chuckle as she suddenly flies right up into the air, above the tents, above the decorations, anything out of reach that’s perfectly flammable. The King, the Queen, and even Podzol, all watch, struck silent, as Talia takes a deep, calm breath, the light from within her maw suddenly going dark while the glow from within her abdomen suddenly burns bright, so bright that they can actually see it shine as if it was that of a firefly. There was a tense moment of silence, before all at once, Talia cranes her neck forward and out from her mouth comes a _stream_ of bright red flames, hot and jubilant, crawling and writhing through the air. It’s enough to make the King wince, the sheer amount of heat blasting down upon him being enough to make his hand come up to shield his eyes from the bright, burning pyre, watching with stricken awe as Talia finally lets her mouth snap shut, the flames dying off into smoldering embers that fade as quickly as they come, the air left to ripple like water amidst the heat.

Grimm chuckles, the entire time cycling one hand through fluid movements, guiding the excess heat away from the group, especially the White Lady, and the temperature to something more tolerable. He watches the fires plateau above them, without his help, swirling into magnificent hues and patterns. As Talia finishes, he lightly claps for her. "Very good! Your control is much better. A little more practice and I can show you some more complex shapes."

She flaps back down in order to land back on the ground, wings folding back in as the light comes back into her maw once more. “Thanks! I’ve been working really hard at it. The voices have been giving me some great tips, when they aren’t being scared away, of course.” She sighs. “Sometimes I wish he wasn’t so strict about them not talking to me. It’s so annoying.”

The King can’t help but stare in absolute shock, damn near petrified by what he had just witnessed. The Lady was in a similar state, her hands clasped to her mouth, while Podzol was practically cowering behind her, head poking out from behind her back just enough to watch. The King finally retains his voice, just enough to speak. “I...Pardon me for asking, Grimm, but... _what was that?_ ”

"Quite intriguing, isn't it?" He grins widely, hands rubbing together. "I'd love to hear your guesses first. It's always interesting when people guess. They usually get it wrong."

“I...Um..” The King goes silent once again, trying to wrack his brain to try and figure it all out. 

The Lady was the first to speak up, hands slowly lowering from her mouth. “..She can...breathe fire?”

"Yes! But _how_?" His grin spreads further across his face, eager to hear more.

“Umm...” The Lady pauses for a moment. “...Your magic?”

The King pipes up as well. “Her own magic?”

Podzol practically growls. “The pits of hell?”

"Aha!" Grimm points at both the King and Queen. "Both of you - _both_ are right!" He gives Podzol a glance. "And, I suppose you, metaphorically."

The King narrows his eyes for a moment, and he decides to probe a little further, his eyes starting to glow as he begins to extend his senses, just far enough to try and peer through the veil. Talia blinks, her fur bristling, and she takes a step back, her hands coming up to clasp close to her chest! “Hey, hey, hey! You can’t just go looking at my soul like that! You know how _weird_ that feels?!”

That gets the King to blink again, and he retracts his reach as if it had been slapped away, looking astonished. “You...You could _feel_ that?”

“Yeah, don’t do it again! You may be a King, but I’m not just gonna let you go poking around in my weird-magicky-bits! It feels creepy! It’s like pins and needles except on the _inside!”_

The Grimmchild raises their head at the commotion, and glances around the group surrounding them. Without a single noise, they leap from the King's shoulder and flap toward the Nightmare King, hovering close to his side.

Grimm chuckles slightly at the King's face. "It's not exactly polite to be peering into other people's beings, now is it, my dear King? Especially when such magic isn't as akin to yours as other’s."

That gets the Lady to giggle a touch. “Oh, bad habits die hard, I suppose. I remember how much mischief he would get into, poking his nose into places that don’t belong.”

The King flushes slightly and he huffs slightly and looks away. “I didn’t think she’d _see_ me do it. I just thought taking a quick glimpse would help me figure it out.”

Talia huffs, and as she does, a trickle of smoke flares free from her mouth. “There’s an even faster way to do that! _Asking!_ I’m not shy about it! I _brag_ about it! You could’ve just asked me to explain!”

“I, well...Hmph.” He looks away further, and the Queen chortles a bit harder.

"I _will_ have to ask you to hold your curiosity amongst my other kin," Grimm says. "Talia feels it quite keenly, but everyone here is touched by my flame in some way. The more senior Troupe members, being exposed for longer... well, I'm sure you can imagine. But, please, do ask her how she does it. The answer always amuses me."

There was a few seconds before the King sighs and looks back toward Talia. “...How did you breathe fire?” 

That gets her to grin, and she barely holds back a chuckle as she turns slightly to present the eerie glow within her abdomen. “Well...See this? This red glow? That, my good Monarch, is one of the Master’s sacred flames! The same ones used to light the torches!”

Silence. Everyone’s eyes are wide, and the King’s jaw is dropped. Podzol is the first to speak, stepping out from behind the Queen to narrow his eyes in incredulous shock. “You mean you...You... _obtained_ one of...those cursed flames that are said to ruin kingdoms?”

“Eh, obtain is such a complex word. I prefer... _eaten_.” She grins wide, and they can see the blackness of her fangs.

"Honestly, _I'm_ surprised she's still alive." Grimm flattened a hand against his chest. "Anyone who's come into contact with my flames tends to get horrendously injured as a result. But it barely made a dent in her! Isn't that amazing? She can even use a _tiny_ bit of my magic, as you saw, but it's _different_. Much more... slippery? Wily. That's the word."

Podzol sputters for a moment, clearly taken aback by the sheer absurdity of what was happening right now. “Injured? _Injured_ ? If she had gone and _eaten_ a flame, any flame, not even a magical one, she should be _dead_ !  Completely and utterly dead! A corpse! This...She... _WHAT_?!”

"Well, evidently you've never seen flame swallowers. They eat regular fire every day of the week for fun. They also tend to light their food on fire before eating it too when they get bored..." His brows crease for a moment as if momentarily worried, but he waves the thought away. " _Magical_ fires are incredibly different, though, and while incredibly dangerous, they tend to be remarkably... alive. It's what gives it so much power. It's one thing to make a simple fire-" He holds out one palm, a flare of orange igniting within it. "-and it's an entirely different thing to make something _living_." He offers his other hand, and his crimson flame sparks to life, flickering much more sporadically and swaying side to side, unaffected by wind but seemingly desperate in seeking it out.

That gets the King to lean in slightly closer to Grimm’s hands, eyes narrowing again. “Hmm...Fascinating...” 

Talia chuckles, her antenna twitching slightly. “Yup, sure is! Doesn’t help that I have voices in my head now! Not like, in the crazy way. I literally have voices of a bunch of Grimm’s past selves in my head. They pop in from time to time to talk to me, but they always get scared away by the Master.” 

The Lady tilts her head, frowning. “Why would Grimm not want you to talk to them?”

Talia frowns in confusion. “Huh?” Recognition crosses her face, and her antenna perk up. “Oh! _Oh_ ! No, no, no! Not Master Grimm! I’m talking about _the_ Master! The big one! The head honcho!” 

The King’s eyes widen slightly, and a shiver of heat crawls down his spine, insidious, crackling, like the feeling of breath on the back of his neck. “..Nightmare King.”

"They are a rather intriguingly daunting force to outsiders," Grimm allows, extinguishing his flames. "Sadly, that can also extend to our kin when they are perceived to have meddled where they should not. Ancient spirits never rest, as they say." He gently touches the top of Talia's head, offering the slightest comfort.

The King nods softly, a hand idly drifting to his chin, where old claws, older than he could even conceive of, had touched, had cradled, had _seized_ , and it was enough to make his gut churn with fascination, with dread, with awe and fear, mixing together until it was an uncomfortable knot that left him clenching his fists. “..Indeed.” 

The very air seems to grow a touch tenser around them, and those of the Troupe that were still around all stood still for a moment, rigid, as if they hoped keeping still wouldn’t spurn the wrath of their forever Lord from his dormant resting place amongst their spirits. 

“They say it's a foolish idea to think so heavily on the dead while visiting their grave." Grimm eyes him cryptically.

The King shakes his head to rouse himself back to reality, nodding. “Of course. Forgive me for the disrespect.” The feeling in his gut fades, slowly, but not entirely. Everyone visibly relaxes and they continue to go about their day. 

Talia finally turns to face Grimm, crossing her arms. “So, Master, do you need me for something? The voices are whispering something about the torches.”

"Yes, we'll be placing torches within the kingdom as soon as they're ready. With your background, I was thinking you could help place them. Was there a location we decided on, or is that still negotiable?" He turns back to the King. "I should still have maps of the region, if you'd like to look at them."

The King takes a moment to hum to himself, before nodding. “It would be helpful to see these maps, especially if they need to be updated or not. I believe sticking the torches somewhere close to here would be optimal, but best to look over other options first and foremost.”

"Then we'll move to my private quarters. Which is good, because this one needs more rest." He tickles the Grimmchild's chin and turns, leading the way. "I'll have to apologize in advance for any mess. I go through phases of order and chaos as fast as the weather may change."

“Some things never change then.” That gets the King to chuckle as he starts to follow along, the Lady, and, after a moment, Podzol, following suit. “I remember Enkay often leaving his quarters an utter mess. He would always get so embarrassed about it every time he took me there.”

"Hah! I do remember a bit of that. I more than likely got it from him." He watches his Child float over him, and then blinks a few times as they settle between his horns. "Oh, you've found a new spot to rest on, have you?"

"Nyeh."

"You're not getting another pillow. You ate your last one."

"Nyeh!"

"No."

" _Nyeh!_ "

"No, my Child." He chuckles.

The King can’t help but smile again, watching the exchange with a sort of warmth in his chest. “I must ask, how did you gain a child, Grimm? I don’t recall Enkay ever having one back when he was alive.” He pauses for a moment, flushing slightly. “Is it...er...s-..Is there a second parent?” 

The Lady starts to snicker, taking obvious delight in his shyness to the subject. 

"Oh, no, this one is purely me. Not that it matters much, but we're all infertile. No children by any biological means. They merely just appear one day, out of flames. _Poof_." He brings a hand up to pet the Child, voice soft. "Enkay had a Child as well. That would have been me. You probably never saw because he hid me away. No one outside of the Troupe knows about the Child aside from rumors, and even then they don't know it's mine. You see, the Child is the one who becomes the next incarnation. Without them, the chain cannot be complete and the cycle merely... ends. We'd be gone forever if that were to happen. All of us. Past, present, future." He glances down at them, gaze lingering on Podzol but moving to the others as the bug yawned and looked away with disinterest. "It's a long lasting thing, the Ritual, but delicate in its own means. It's the one secret charged here. You would do well to not repeat it."

The laughter from the Lady’s eyes falls away, and the King’s expression drops into dim horror, eyes trailing to stare at the mewling little creature that was bending over backwards to lock eyes with him, black and beady, not filled with the same red light of their father’s. He feels a sense of something fierce, firm, well up in his chest, and his heart seems to ripple with some unseen emotion, one that felt both loving, soft, and gentle, and cruel, furious, sadistic. He nods once towards Grimm, and the words he speaks then is probably the most serious and truthful that he’s ever been. “...Grimm, I swear on my soul that I will protect your secret with my life.”

Grimm softens, and inclines his head, sparing a glance at the other two, who merely nod in their varying states of shock. The Child watches them for a moment, no longer having to bend so much, and then returns their attention to the Troupe Master, batting their little tendril-y arms at his forehead. "Ah - pff - my Child!" He straightens, both laughing and wincing at the play, and brings a hand up to stop the following hits. "Such a playful thing. I thought you were tired?"

“NYAH!” It lets out a loud squeak, louder than normal, and goes to whack at his forehead again. It suddenly turns and leaps right towards the King, and he has to force himself to not stumble back as he feels its little body land right against his forehead, little claws scrabbling and scraping against his shell. “Ow, ow, ow!” He feels it start to climb higher, higher, and before he can register where exactly its going, he feels it’s weight suddenly drop down, and he actually does stumble, his center of gravity momentarily displaced. “Oh Gods, w-where is it?! What did it do?!”

"Oh dear, they're-" Grimm steadies him. "They're in your crown. Child, please, that's not your-"

" _Nyaaah_!"

Grimm's face reddens. "You watch your tongue. That is _not_ a nice thing to say."

“It’s what?!” He strains to try and reach into his spires, but all he can do is just poke a few claws just above the rim, not nearly enough to get the Child out. He winces heavily as he feels it scrabbling and scratching around within the circumference of his crown, his other hands clenching and unclenching rapidly. “Grimm, Grimm, please! Get it out! Get it out right now! I do _not_ enjoy this! This feels _very_ uncomfortable!”

"I'm working on it! Just hold still a moment." He raises himself an inch, keeping one hand on the King's shoulder. "Child, please, this is not a place for you to rest. We'll be back home soon and-"

"Nyeh." The Child settles against one side of the King's head, glaring up at Grimm, who had a hand poised to scoop them from their perch.

"I know his crown looks like a cage and you've seen birds in cages, but this is not-"

"Nyah!"

"I'll get you one as soon as I can, and a pillow, but for now, I need you to-"

" _Nyeh_."

Grimm goes silent, and, closing his eyes, takes a deep breath. He exhales. "Okay. Okay, this will be slightly uncomfortable for a moment, dear King. Apologies in advance."

"Wait, wha-"

Grimm plunges a hand into the top of his crown. The Child squeaks, jumping around the spires and trying to avoid their father. There's almost a scuffle as Grimm tilts the King's head back and the Child hisses, biting his wrist, at which Grimm swiftly pulls away, Child attached. They squawk again, indignant at being removed from their new hiding place, and leaps from Grimm's arm, only to be snatched by a thread of the Troupe Master's cloak. The fabric wraps around them, snug but not tight, and they wriggle vainly to free themselves. The cloak doesn't budge.

"Bad Child. That is _not_ how you treat a guest."

“ _GyAAHHh_ !”The King can’t help but let out a shocked scream at the sensation of Grimm’s hand shoving itself into the inside of his crown, his spine turning into sheer jelly from the sheer sensation of absolute skin-crawling _discomfort_ that pierced itself through his brain in that moment. It wasn’t painful, wasn’t anywhere near it, but it felt so strange and itchy and _invasive_ and so ungodly _wrong_ that it was enough to make his legs wobble and his entire body seize and shudder, his fingers clutching at his spires in a desperate, yet futile attempt to reach in and yank that hand _out_. 

It’s only when the Child was finally retracted did the King stumble against the figure of his Lady, still clutching his crown as if in pain, shaking, eyes squeezed shut. “Oh Gods...Oh Gods...Ahh...” He rubs his face into his Lady’s embrace as he feels her hands wrapping around him, still reeling from the sensation. “Grimm....Don’t ever...do that...again...”

"I am _terribly_ sorry. I don't know what got over them." He sighs, frowning at the Child a moment longer before turning back to the King. "They didn't bite you, did they? You aren't hurt?"

“Ugh...” He finally feels the strange wrongness fade away, and he shakes his head as he slowly pulls away, slightly, from his Lady’s embrace, his hands letting go of his crown. “No, no, it’s just felt...” He winces again, seeming to struggle to find the words. “It was...wrong. It was itchy and strange and it felt like something was crawling under my skin except it was the entirety of my skull...” He shudders, still absently trying to shove his fingers through the gaps in his crown. “I can still feel it..”

"Perhaps walking would bring you back to your senses? We're almost to my tent, I promise."

“Right, right..” He shakes his head once, twice, before starting to walk once again, one hand still holding his Lady’s as he does so.

Podzol follows close behind, almost encroaching on Grimm and Talia's space. "I... how does that cloak work? It looks like fabric, maybe a leather of some kind, but it.... _How_ does it have such tensility?"

Grimm raises a brow at him, drawing his Child in closer. "Oh. Magic."

"Magic? Just... magic?"

"Yes, just magic."

"But... that... doesn't explain anything."

"It's easier for mortals to not think about."

That gets Podzol to stare for a moment, before he glowers. “I think I can understand perfectly well the type of magic that goes into making fabric work like that. I live in a kingdom that’s known for it’s magic and it’s technology, thank you very much.”

"And I regret to inform you that my magic does not work in the same ways as your King's. Whatever rules and laws you believe binds the world does not bind myself nor my kin. You would have to study the workings of this magic for quite some time to understand it, and in order to do so you would have to spend a considerable amount of time amongst my Troupe." He waves around them at the tents that were becoming more and more spaced out. "Furthermore, you would have to find a way to spend quite some time specifically with myself, which many within my clan attempt and very few manage, as a result of my schedule and duties, _so_ even in the case that you would both be willing and eager to join my little cabal of strange and wonderful adventurers, I doubt you would truly have the capabilities of running such ingenious experiments as I am sure you are already presuming inside your own head as we speak."

Podzol flounders for a moment, before he glares, an icy spark of anger that flashes within the scarred eye of his, and his claws flex, but do not move to strike. “...Underestimating mortals is not exactly wise, even if what you say is true.” 

“Podzol, enough.” The King narrows his eyes. “You are a guest here.  An uninvited one at that. Count yourself lucky Grimm does not punish you himself for what you’ve done.”

"Oh, no, please, I would like to hear more about this business regarding underestimating mortals." Grimm gives an innocent look, eyes round and tone just as level as before. "Is this regarding the tale of those mortals who assailed some distant god's kingdom for his power and throne, or the one of the mortals tasked by the gods to kill their own brethren?"

Podzol’s gaze is kept steady, resolute, still brewing with dim amounts of anger. “You could consider it in reference to both. But there’s also the fact that while Gods may rule over others, it is the mortals that give them that power in the first place, is it not? That’s what the old stories claim, and since when is myth so different from the truth when it comes to the likes of Gods?”

"Perhaps it becomes different when a god can declare a fact, and in this case I  _will_." Grimm lifts his chin.

It was fascinating to watch these two challenge each other in words. There were thinly veiled threats, the jabs at each other's pride, the questioning of each other's authority - marked ever so juxtaposed by them being a scientific, mortal bug to a galavanting, immortal god - but never once was it apparent they would make good on their word. Grimm had every right to carry out his promises, but his tone made it clear he found the instance much more of a battle of minds. As much philosophical as it was jocular.

"There are various gods, each with their own powers, who do as they please with whatever falls before them. Some rule over bugs, some rule over other gods, some rule over the wilds. Mortals are not in the least a constant among them all. Not all gods require worship to be fueled, though some prefer it, and worship may in fact benefit them. After all, who creates the nightmare? Me?" He smiles sharply. "Or the bug who lives it?"

That gets Podzol’s eyes to narrow ever so slightly, and it’s clear from his silence that he’s taking the words in, considering them. “...Maybe you have a point...But there are some things that Gods cannot control. There are some places, some things that Gods cannot perceive of, not until they see it through our eyes. That is where the strength of mortals comes from.” His eyes flick to the King for a moment. “So what does it say of these powerful beings who are locked into this view of the big picture, of always seeing things through the constant, unchanging view of infinity? When mortals are forever changing, adapting, rising against the threats that face them?”

"Hmm." Grimm smirks at him. "Well said, well said. You mortals are a rather fickle lot, and change rather often. That's something I admire quite a bit. You keep things entertaining." He looks ahead and chuckles, almost to himself. "How apt it is that you say these words to the one god who truly knows change. Other gods live for millennia and millennia, watching everything around them progress through time, perhaps here and there forgetting themselves, but I? It's in my nature to die, forget, and relearn. Three thousand and some odd years is young for all gods, and still young for my kind, but it's three thousand years spent studying all my ancestors, their decisions, their discoveries, their ways, and then tearing it all apart to make my own. You may know change because you feel time so well, but how do you know time so that you may change and _not_ adapt in the same way another failed? Not-" He raises a finger. "-to say you can't, but I must mourn for those who tend to live such short lives and cannot rightly recall their past mistakes. They say history repeats itself. I can attest to that. But I can also see the warning signs and stop it before it happens."

“Hmph....I suppose there is one other question I have.” Podzol crosses his arms. “If you can change and choose to do something else, something different than the lives before you....Why continue to be the Nightmare King? Why continue to be the demon who haunts mortals with nightmares? Plaguing them with fear? Do you take delight in it? Does it give you pleasure?” He glances off to the side, at the rest of the masked followers. “And what of your minions? You don them in your garb, have them follow your rules and continue to keep your cycle of death and rebirth, and for what? A constant spiral of doom and fire, of poisoning kingdoms and bringing their ruin through curses set alight by your flames? I’ve heard many tales of you, Nightmare King Grimm, and none of them are welcome. So why keep going with it?”

Grimm goes silent for a moment, still smiling, but now thinking of his words. "Hmm. I'll have to first inform you that the stories you have heard are all second or third hand accounts. We thrive on other kingdoms to keep us all fed and well. All you see about us is, in one way or another, supplied by a dependency on other kingdoms. Being the Nightmare King... the Nightmare King is my history. If you could distill all the knowledge all my past selves collected, the Nightmare King is it. You could not part with your own history, no? It makes you who you are, no matter how far you run." He glances at his scarred eye before turning away, mentally chastising himself for the rudeness. "I take no pleasure in seeing the ends of kingdoms. Death is very much a part of my business, but it is not well understood by mortals, or even other gods. Such an abstract idea, death, which most put down to one meaning." He muses about it for a moment, and shakes his head. "My kin are here of their own will. They can leave whenever they want. There are very few rules outside of my needs of secrecy and the general needs of personal decency. They aid me not in poisoning kingdoms, but in helping them flourish. It may seem odd, but the end of a _kingdom_ typically does not mean the end of its _people_. Merely a transformation into something new. As it will be here."

Something in his body language seems to tense ever so slightly, an air of suspicion that grows, or rather spikes, like that of fearful prey who grow as still as the dead for fear of their predator’s shadow falling over them. Podzol’s claws twitch again, and his dead eye narrows harder, as if he could somehow see past the layers of Grimm’s words and reveal the deceit within. Instead, he merely huffs and looks away, not saying another word. 

The King visibly relaxes, letting out a sigh, a breath that he had no idea he was really holding. He was almost certain some confrontation would arise. Everything had seemed so tense. They make their way through the last rows of tents and into an odd clearing surrounding two tents. One is as small as the others outside the clearing, different only in the darker, more vibrant coloring of red and black and white. The other stands vaguely fifteen feet wide, a mouth open in invitation, a warm, amber glow coming from within and casting three silhouettes toward the wandering party. Divine chuckles behind a long claw, glancing between Brumm and Monomon as they exchange millennia old greetings.

“Ah, good, they made it.” Grimm brings his hands together and glances at Talia, who was still eyeing Podzol menacingly. “Talia, dear, do you think you could help with assembling the torches?”

“On it, boss!” She offers a mock salute to the Troupe Master, glares at Podzol again, and goes flying toward the larger tent.

The King blinks at the sight of Monomon and Divine, narrowing his eyes in slight confusion. “How did they all..? They were on the other side of the camp last time I checked!”

Grimm snickers. "Go ahead and look at the cliff sides. Doesn't look like they've changed much, does it?"

That gets all three guests to turn their heads upwards, unsure of what exactly their tour guide was getting on about, until they noticed that the cliffs were less like that of cliffs and more of that of an encompassing rock _alcove_ , made up of two enormous slabs that were resting up against each other, causing a massive space to be provided in the very bottom of the structure, exactly where the camp was situated. The could still see the staircase they had climbed down. The Lady frowns, mouth open slightly. “...How..?”

"Your magics and science do not apply to me and mine." He smirks, giving Podzol a wink, and strides forward with open arms, his Child still biting at his robes. "Ah! Brumm! I see you've been reacquainted with our dear Lady Monomon."

All three of the chattering characters look up, Brumm being the first to wave a hand in greeting, stepping forward to walk towards him, giving a slight bow before rising back up to speak. “Mrm! Indeed, Master! I honestly hadn’t expected that she was still amongst the living! It was quite the surprise!”

Divine chuckles to herself. “It seems that _everything_ is still a surprise to you.” 

That gets Brumm to huff, and he turns to give her a slight glare. “Don’t pretend like you weren’t shocked either!” 

“Not really. I knew the Wyrm was enough of a softie to find some way to keep his little crew of disciples alive.”

“I prefer the term ‘ _friends_ ’ a lot more, thank you very much, Divine.” Monomon crosses two tendrils, huffing slightly.

"Did you see much of the place on your own?" Grimm clasps his hands together, resuming his place as host. "Again, I'm terribly sorry for the interruption earlier. The little one was in quite a mood."

" _Nyah_!" Grimmchild stops their struggling to scowl at him, and then returns to biting at their confines.

“Little one?” Monomon cranes her head to see the tiny creature tucked into Grimm’s cloak, and gasps with excitement, crawling closer to get a better look, tentacles clasped to her mask in utter delight. “Ooh my _gods_! Grimm, you didn’t tell me you were a father! Ohh, it looks so much like you!” She glances up at him, smirking. “Now don’t go telling me that you went and had some fling somewhere.” She lets out a chuckle, and her eyes then flick to the King. “or should I say.... _with_ _someone_.” 

The King’s face instantly turns a bright, red, and he practically _screeches_ . “THERE IS NO FLING, MONOMON! THERE NEVER _WILL_ BE A FLING!” 

“Suuuuure. Just like how you said you _never_ would go and fall in love with En-“

“YOU STOP TALKING THIS INSTANT!”

Grimm chuckles lightly, hands raising more in defense this time, and leans back from Monomon's gaze, the Child moving closer to him at her quick movements. "The Child is purely mine, I can assure you of that. No one else involved."

“Hmm.” She leans back, almost as if she was disappointed. “Damn. I was almost hoping that it was also the King’s. Would’ve been perfect to study godly hybrids.”

The King practically hisses at her, glowering with an embarrassed rage that was doing nothing to make him seem fearsome like he hoped. “Monomon, it isn’t mine! And even if it was, _which it isn’t_ , I wouldn’t let you _anywhere_ near it!”

“Now you’re just speaking lies, my dear King.” She chuckles to herself.

"Well, er, with that being said..." Grimm gently wraps his hands around the Child and looks toward the smaller, more modest tent. "I think it's about time I put our Child to sleep for the day. They've had quite the bit of excitement as is."

The Lady, who’s hand was resting on the still red-faced King’s shoulder, nods softly, smiling. “Go right ahead. We can wait.” 

Brumm nods in agreement. “Mrm. Best to put the little one to rest. Make sure they don’t set anymore tents on fire.”

"Very well. You two keep them company, and make sure they don't go running into anything dangerous." He gives Brumm and Divine a look before walking off and ducking into the tent, the Grimmchild back to deceptively cooing and purring on his shoulder.

A small moment of silence falls over the group. Monomon bring a tendril to her chin. "Did he say ' _our_ Child?' Plural? Are you _sure_ there isn't some suitor out there?"

“If there is, he didn’t say.” The Lady shrugs softly, watching Grimm walk away with an almost melancholic look. “That seems to be a recurring theme, nowadays, isn’t it?” 

“....We can’t expect Grimm to be the same as him, my dear.” The King speaks up, sighing as he lets his hand drift to her own. “That isn’t fair to him. He doesn’t know us.”

"Oh, wow." Divine blinks at them all, her expression becoming more serious as she listened to them. "You're all still thinking like that? Damn, I keep forgetting how long it's been."

"Mrm. Only time can help." Brumm looks away.

"Time is kinda the issue here too. Although..." Her signature smirk crawls back onto her face and she hides a snicker behind a claw. "If you don't mind me asking, how long did it take to figure it out? The Master can be quite deceptive, no matter how much he says he isn't an actor."

“Well, considering me and Monomon only found out he was alive _yesterday_ -“ At that, she glares at the King, who bunches his shoulders out of shame. “-it took quite a while indeed.” 

“Monomon _and I_ , my Queen.” Monomon mumbles slightly under her breath. 

“Dearest, I could give less of a Drake’s hide right now.” 

The King sighs, shoulders drooping. “I only...really found out when I had a nightmare. He...I saw him in my sleep.”

"Oh, it was like that..." She frowns again. "He must have really not remembered you. He knew of you from some of our books and all. But I guess it didn't quite kick in."

Brumm grumbles quietly to himself, his wandering gaze returning to the tent.

"He... did explain to you the memories, right?" Divine arched a brow. "He's let you near the Child, so he must have told you something about the Ritual."

Brumm's head snaps to her, his fur bristling. "Mrm! You know we're not to-"

She waves a claw. "Come _on_ . They _have_ to know something about it all."

“The Ritual in which his body is killed, yes?” The Lady tilts her head slightly. “Yes, we know of it. He told us, though, granted, he... didn’t exactly have much choice. Herrah was with us, and we all know she wouldn’t have taken no answer for an answer.” 

The King and Monomon both nod in agreement.

"Whoa, _Herrah_ is still around!?" Divine scuttles closer to the royalty. "I thought she was ancient back when we met her. Perks of being close to the Wyrm King? Ooh!" She didn't give them any time to answer as she surged even closer, slinking around them with more speed than her hefty body would presume to hold. "The weird, little one? Is he around still? The one that always followed you around?" Here she lowered her face, grin wide with sharp teeth, next to the King's.

The King doesn’t even flinch, merely sighing and nodding once more. “Yes, both Herrah _and_ Lurien are still alive. Herrah...well, we are on good terms if we’re referring to just us. Her people, on the other hand, reject my rule, through no fault of their own. Lurien, I’ll be glad to say, now has his sight again, even better than what he had before.”

Monomon idly gives the King a little flick in the head with a tentacle. “Good ol’ King here went and decided to give Lurien omnipresent sight. He can see pretty much everything in the entire damn kingdom, right down to the number of Geo you have in your coin purse. He was the first one out of him, Herrah, and I to know that you were even here.”

"Oh, wow. Been a while since a god gave anyone powers like that." Divine slinks away from them, moving to stand beside Brumm. "Who was the last one we met? Arrogant guy, with a spear or something?"

"Mrm. Daklan the Brawn. Chosen of... Hrm.. Silver Hamlet?" Brumm scratches the back of his head. "Blessed with deadly aim to protect the people. Would have been a few hundred years ago."

"Yeah, he was a jerk. Hopefully he's dead now."

"You only say that because he called you overly dramatic."

"And you _don't_ say that because he liked your music."

The King idly takes a step back as Divine moves away, letting out a deeper sigh as his eyes stray past everyone else to observe the tents surrounding them, the ghosts flying overhead, the masked folk all going about their business. It all seemed so strange, both in how different and yet how _similar_ it all was, and to think that one day, somehow, somewhere, Grimm would end up dying too. Grimm would die, and the Ritual would cause his body to cease and be replaced with that of his own Child, his spirit gone, gone to the same ethereal place where Enkay too went to when his time came. It was a sour, bitter thought, and it crept down his veins like a vile poison, leaving his hands to clench, his shoulders to hunch, and he could feel his heart throb in a way that he hadn’t felt in a long, long time. 

Grimm would die, one day. The King wouldn’t. That was how it was meant to be.

"He had history as a musician! There wasn't anything more than that."

"Oh, sure, sure. You keep telling yourself that."

Brumm and Divine continue bickering, and the White Lady and Monomon chuckle at the fight. Podzol seemed to be zoning out, staring vacantly at the sky. It was hard to consider how the two arguably highest in command of Grimm's Troupe were merely poking fun at each other. It was difficult to think how anyone could be even vaguely happy knowing the ring leader would one day die and be replaced with another.

He notices a single bug wander out of the larger tent which Talia had entered. The masked figure glances at the higher ups, then ducks back into the tent and scurries out of sight. The dark flap swings, occasionally showing a slim view within the entrance's mouth. One swing, two swing-

The King freezes in place, catching sight of a bejeweled, black and crimson figure standing within the tent. Red eyes glare into him, rimmed in familiar, heart shaped white, stained black with what could only be described as tears. The curtain swings again, and then the figure is motioning to him with a long, curling finger, body twitching and distorted, head twisting unnaturally so the horns and chin almost swapped position. He feels his breath catch, everything seeming to dim around him, until all he could see, all he could hear, was the figure, staring him down from the swinging curtains of the tent’s entrance, so familiar, yet so out of place, so similar, yet so strange all at the same time. He could not sense any life from it, any soul or want of its own, only a strong, dissonant presence, concentrated, focused, and unbearably eerie. He clenches his fists once, twice, already feeling his heart starting to pound, taking one last glance at everyone else around him, before he slowly starts to walk towards the figure, watching with an almost morbid fascination as it’s erratic shape curls and violently snaps back and forth.

"Oh, come on! He was not buff at all! The guy was a butterfly. You can't get more delicate than that."

"You'd be surprised how strong a butterfly can be."

The sounds of the argument die away behind him, and the curtain falls still ahead. He hesitates at the entrance. It really wasn't his place to be snooping around, but... It must have been another past self. Grimm had mentioned ghosts, and while he had seen plenty already, maybe he hadn't only meant the ones zipping about the tents. He parts the curtain and slips inside. A dimly lit hallway stretches before him, empty aside from a large, open, more well-lit area quite a distance away. The specter is nowhere to be seen. The King shifts for a moment, taking his time in looking around what he could see, just enough to make sure that he was truly alone and that there wasn’t anymore masked followers around; he already been caught sneaking through a tent once, he didn’t want to be caught again. He lets himself sigh, quietly, before slowly starting to walk down the hallway, his hands folded, his posture kept tense.

There were curtains on either side of him, seemingly pinned... no, sewn into the ground. The hall echoed as if made of marble despite the dirt ground. He reaches the source of the dim light, an amber bottle of lumaflies suspended in the air. It didn't appear to be held by anything. Merely... floating there. Odd. He turns away from the strange contraption and steps further toward-

"What...?"

The lit clearing was gone. The hallway ended a dozen meters ahead with a cerulean door. The King spun around and stumbled away from a sudden wall of leathery tarp. A jagged, uneven line of purposefully noticeable stitching kept it in place. Fear caused his blood to chill, if only for a moment, within his bones, realizing that the way out of the tent, the entrance and exit, was on the other side of the wall, the wall that he was now trapped on the other side of. He slowly turns back around, turns back to face the hallway, and there it was, standing there, watching him with a nigh alien patience that he had no hope of knowing, it’s figure still twitching, still shaking, but now, much more solid, more grounded, and the form it took was enough to get his eyes to burn with the threat of tears. Could...Could that really be....

“...Enkay?”

The claws twitch, neck audible cracking, but the head stays in place. Black blood oozes from his eyes and from cracks in their throat, splattering on the ground beneath their feet. The figure says nothing, and turns away from him, walking toward the door. The golden chains that had adorned his horns hung broken and loose behind him. A massive, bleeding line traced down his spine. 

The moment the blood starts to leak down his love’s ghostly carapace, bubbling and gurgling like a broken fountain that hasn’t been touched in ages, the King feels his blood turn to ice within his veins, and the tears start trailing down his cheeks before he even realizes they’re there. His throat swells, his hands shake, and yet he somehow keeps breathing, keeps standing, and no matter how much he wants to _refuse_ to move, _refuse_ to chase after Enkay so he wouldn’t have to face this gruesome sight of his beloved’s butchered corpse, he knew he had no choice. This wasn’t even close to a proper punishment, and he knew it. This was just a slap on the wrist. There was so much more that could be done to him, especially when he was here, at the center of the Troupe’s grounds, at the mercy of the whims of the Heart. This was only the beginning, he was sure of it, and he had to face it, see it through, if only to bring peace to Enkay’s cold corpse. 

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and follows the trail of black, the tears flowing so bad his vision was almost obscured, hand trembling, desperately trying to avoid reaching out to grab Enkay by the hand, to hold it in his own, to squeeze it to his chest. He did not deserve it.

The ghost slides through the door without opening it, leaving a faint stain on the paint which slowly recedes into nothingness. The King shakingly grabs the knob and opens the door, rubbing his eyes free of tears with his other hand. The ground becomes carpet, the lighting a deeper red, just as it had been in those dreams, and an infinitely long corridor stretches before him. It was wide enough to fit at least ten people side by side, and the walls were flanked by evenly spaced tapestries of black and red, hung behind life-size statues of Nightmare Kings in all shapes and sizes. The King can’t help but stare at the largeness of it all, his eyes going wide, taking slow, tentative steps, further into this new location. He looks back behind him, and just as he suspected, the leather blockade was now cutting off the door in its entirety, leaving only the doorframe still visible. He turns to glance at the specter, and for a moment, he hesitates to speak. “...Enkay...What is this place? Where are you taking me?”

He was further down the hallway now, almost difficult to make out from such a distance, and was staring at a particular statue. No words come out, but they raise a hand with some difficulty and point at it. The King frowns, softly, and slowly, after a little hesitation, wanders closer to him, following to where his finger was pointing, only to have his jaw drop. The statue looked to be made of some kind of blackened rock, smooth like marble, intricate, detailed, veins and spider-webbed ribbons of pure scarlet dancing down the surface, the eyes and horns lit aflame with bright burning red, while the rest of the body remains mostly dark. The jewelry hanging free of the figure’s horns, arms, claws, was all authentic, all glimmering with visible wealth, gold and silver and diamond, and it only took one look at the chain around the horns for it all to click. “...It’s you.”

The specter nods, a jerky movement that makes their whole being glitch before returning to normal. Their arm lowers and they look higher, at the tapestry hanging above them. A print of them, with a staff PK had only seen them hold once or twice, surrounded by articles of song and dance and theater, and even a few instruments of trickery. A distant background of winding paths leading into a craggy canyon lays behind it all. Encapsulated in circles at the top lay a coiled, snake like being, easily made out to be a Wyrm, and next to it a visage similar to the King's. At the bottom, a similar set of circles, one with Radiance's visage and another similar to the silhouette of the Grimmchild.

The King sees the beautiful painting, sees the delicate details, the way the threads shine against the torchlight that illuminates the room, no doubt crafted by the best of the artists in the entire Troupe. He sees the way Enkay is posed in the frame, balancing on his toes as he clutches the staff in hand, a dazzling smile on his face as he spreads his hands in welcome, relishing in the joys of his works, from his plays and poems to his songs and sonnets. He sees the figures in the background, a coiling dragon long dead and cold, a shining goddess that so cruelly struck him down, a tiny shape of a Child witnessing the death of their parent....and him. He who caused the death. He who said nothing, and watched as Enkay’s life was torn from him.

He felt his heart twist, his eyes water, and he has to hold back the sob that so desperately tried to push forth. “...I’m...I’m so sorry....”

Enkay watches him for a moment with those eyes dripping black, then turns and walks toward the other side of the hall. A much more modest statue stood there, all the more complicated for its split image.  On one side of the face was a smile, and on the other a harsh scowl. A cloak shadowed the right arm, covered in triangular, plated metal, the hand clutching a long, wickedly sharp glaive. The blade itself was the size of an arm, curved on one side and sporting spikes on the other. The shaft was wrapped in crossing leather, and tied below the blade were strips of fabric which had previously carried the colors of dozens upon dozens of kingdoms but now laid bloodstained and unrecognizable. The statue held the weapon - a true artifact, not merely a stone replica, but the real thing - at an angle to the ground, so the defiled banners hung down from their pike. But the rest of the statue, that other, more benign half... It truly seemed as if the whole thing was being remodeled, the warrior on one side being replaced by a rather plain, spindly cloaked...

No. It couldn't be.

"Grimm?"

Grimm’s face, on both sides of the statue, one side displaying the same lovely smile he had just seen stretch across his face when holding his Child in his arms, and the other holding a dark, angry glower, an arrogant and vengeful gaze that he can only recall seeing sheer _vestiges_ of within the darkness of his workroom back in the Palace, and the sight of the weapon, the tattered, bloodied glaive still clutched tight in his claws, was enough to make his stomach twist. He takes a step back, before moving to walk around the statue, desperate to see the canvas he knew was there, what it depicted, what it _showed_.

Death. Entire kingdoms on fire, people slaughtered. More of that unforgiving gaze, allowing unchecked chaos to reign wherever he walked. The forms of some past army melted into ghosts and ghoulish performers, a mockery of the arts standing across the hall. A circle hovered above it all, similar to Enkay's, holding the terrifying form of the Shade Lord. The lower two circles held a strange, horned face and the image of the Grimmchild wreathed in flames, eyes filled in with red.

“...Oh Gods...” The King can’t help but feel himself take a step back, recoiling, his blood chilling within his veins, his heart wrenching within his chest at the sight of what could only be described as an illustrated genocide. His hands quivered, his breathing quickened, and he feels the tears start to flow once more, unchecked. “...Oh Gods no....Grimm...”

"Pale King?" The voice fills the room dimly, as if muffled, but close enough to be coming from the other side of the wall. "Can you hear me at all? I can tell you're in here, but... Hm. I swear, if one of the ancestral spirits grabbed you and I have _another_ haunting on my hands...."

The King feels his heart jump once more at the sound of the voice, at the sound of Grimm’s voice, and for a moment, he feels tempted to call out, to respond, going so far as to open his mouth, prepared to speak. But the sight of the bloodied blade still held tight in the statue’s claws, of the tapestry depicting death and bodies littering around his feet, it was enough to make him pause. He slowly looks back, looks behind him, to gaze into the bleeding husk of Enkay’s corpse, silently asking his beloved a perilous question: what should he do?

Enkay slowly raises a finger to their lips and motions with his other hand for him to move away from the statue. _His image... His power..._ A strange, gruff voice slid into his mind, a tingling feeling in the base of his skull, barely recognizable as Enkay's.

"Dear King? Oh my. I truly can't take my eyes off the man without him getting into trouble."

The feeling of that voice slipping into his head, so warped and strange, a slithering whisper that seemed to echo from within his own thoughts, was enough to cause the King to stare, before he finally mustered up the strength to start moving once more. He glances back toward the blockade that was keeping Grimm from entering the hall, and then turns away, starting to walk towards the ghostly specter of Enkay, nodding silently, to show he was willing to follow.

Enkay turns and starts walking down the hall, the fingers of one hand twitching uncontrollably. _He lies... Difficult to see... Reconstructs past..._

There was a subtle knocking from the other side of the wall, shortly followed by harder, rougher knocks. "Brumm! I found the wall! It's shifted again. We need to find the door."

 _Quickly. Must show something._ He lengthens his stride, hobbling slightly as one leg refuses to cooperate.

The King is quick to hasten his pace, and though he feels his blood curdle within his veins at the sound of Grimm trying to knock against the wall, he finds that the voice is quick to draw his attention away. He is quick to walk closer towards Enkay, now at his side, head dipping slightly, trying with all his might to whisper, in hopes that Grimm cannot hear him. “...Why come to me now, Enkay? Why show me this? Why show me Grimm’s past? What did he do?”

 _The Heart... dislikes disobedience.... To do task... you need something._ Enkay lowers their head, not quite looking at the King. _Ancient artifact... from beginning days. Grimm knows not....The King hoards his treasures._

“...Artifact...” He frowns, softly, considering his words, puzzling over them. He walks past many more statues, many more tapestries, all of them strange, different, and seemingly endless, no matter how far he walks. A figure, bent over a corpse of what appears to be a beetle, strapped to a table, it’s organs in jars and it’s husk being stuffed with cotton. A seamstress, surrounded by the many fruits of her labors: dresses, ceremonial robes, long flowing outfits that seemed to be threaded with all manner of jewels and gold. A woman, her arms outstretched as she sang her voice up to the heavens, as cried upon crowd watched with awe. Many more came, many of them bloody, many of them peaceful, all moralities seeming to twist and change and contort with every new iteration.

 _None of us know... how old..._ Enkay looks up at a few tapestries as they walk, the corridor growing darker as they walked. _Millennia... ages... epochs... Too many to count..._ He goes silent for a moment, frowning as the tapestries lost their colors and drained into plain red and black. The statues clutch ancient, aging jewelry, weapons, books, flowers, lanterns, odd trinkets. More lay about their feet, some lording over locked chests. _Well... only one... knows._

The King nods softly, knowing for a fact that speaking His name would only serve to cause trouble, especially within such sacred halls. He watched as the tapestries seemed to be stripped of color, blackness creeping around the edges of the picture frames as if they were stains that were finally seeping through the wallpaper, and it’s only when a certain threshold was crossed, did the King begin to realize that...everything was turning black. The floor, the walls, the ceiling, everything, slowly eking away into an impenetrable abyss that he could no longer see the end of, and he resorted to using the dim light of Enkay’s bleeding eyes to see through the pitch, the glimmering red outlines of the remaining tapestries only highlighting the shapes and faces of the long dead, the spirits of the forgotten, the ancestors of the Troupe’s sacred flame.

Enkay slows to a stop, body glitching again. An average, completely black statue flanked by silver, spike-topped torches stood in front of them, the entire pedestal wreathed in gnarled vines. The figure stood upright, poised with their hands on the pommel of an overturned, rusting sword. Parts of the blade were chipping away, and half of the guard was missing entirely. The tapestry, larger than all the others, depicted only the same silhouette of the statue in front of a massive, stitched together Heart. As they watch, the Heart beats, a dull, resounding pulse that sent waves of heat into the corridor.

 _The First._ Enkay almost sighs, staring at the statue and tapestry with a look of sad reverence. _The Fundament._

The King can’t help but gaze upon what little he can see of the first tapestry, the cold, rusted remains of the sword, the statue, even the frame of the picture on the wall looking to be heavily cracked, distorted, decayed to time. Somehow the figure within the picture staring down at him seemed so different from the oddly threatening phantom that had abducted him in his dreams, and he can’t help but wonder how much of the original person still remains. How much of the Nightmare King is still the person they were in life? How much was the power of the God itself given mind and body? Is there ever really a difference between the two?

 _The artifact lays in the brambles_ . Enkay finally turns to him. _Only living hands can touch such a thing._

The King stares into those eyes for a moment, those eyes that drip with blackened blood, a thick ichor that drips down his cheeks like that of tar, and it was enough to get his heart to twist. He nods towards him, softly, trying to fight the tears beginning to well again, his claws already starting to shake. “Thank you, Enkay...for everything.”

He finally turns away towards the statue, to face the gnarled swarm of dark brambles and thorny vines that gathered around the feet of the rotting statue, and he slowly kneels down to inspect them. The darkness was so thick, so unnervingly solid, that even with his shell shining bright, he could only just barely see the massive knot of plant life that dared to grow at the feet of the flame’s master, and slowly, he reached out, gripping the brambles with a careful, careful grip, before he starts to tug, to tear apart. Strand upon strand of vines fall away, torn free from their prison, fleshy chunks of blackened ichor plopping to the ground and leaving smears of ink to stain the carpeted floors, and it leaves the King to wince and grimace in sheer disgust; it felt less like that of plants and more like...flesh, like he was methodically tearing apart a corpse, ripping away the veins and muscles and tendons that dared to hide away the center. Enkay merely stands where he had been and watches the pile of black goo accumulate on the even darker ground. At last, the King breaches the cocoon of vines and brushes his hand against something round. A stone of some sort? It was small, just barely the size of his palm, maybe smaller.

He pauses, his eyes narrowing in tentative confusion, before he slowly leans down closer towards what remained of the brambles, letting his light fill the air just a touch more, piercing through the veil of the darkness, just enough to reveal what was beneath. His breath caught in his throat for a moment, transfixed with awe, at what he was seeing. A Charm, small, drenched in darkness, coated in what could only be described as the very abyss he now sat in, carved and molded in strange, intricate swirls, with two bright white eyes that seemed to make a mockery of the very light that shone from his own shell. 

He moved to take it, to grab it, his claws just barely able to dig underneath it’s rim as he starts to pull, only to be met with the resistance of the few brambles that remained. He lets himself let out a growl of exertion as he begins to pull, to tug, to yank, his wings flaring outward and starting to flap as the vines stretched and bent and twisted, seemingly unwilling to break, to split apart, to release it’s hold on the mysterious Charm. The King grits his teeth with frustration, standing up now as he yanks again and again, harder and harder, watching as the thorny veins to this abyssal Charm _strain_ and _stretch_ to hold fast, before he finally summons a blade in a hand, and swings it forth to cut. The vines part like water, sending forth more of that awful ichor to come sloshing and splashing to the floor in large splatters, and the King finds himself tumbling back from his own momentum, knocked flat on his back and left to aimlessly clutch his prize in his now tar-stained hands, staring up at it with a look of confusion, fascination, and awe, all at once.

“...What...What is this?”

"The Void Heart, if you must know."

The silver torches sputter to life, filling the end of the hall with dull light, just enough for the King to make out Grimm's crimson face hovering above him. Crimson. His shell was no longer black, but the same shade as his own flames. His eyes glowed a deeper red, flickering as they scowled down at him. His fists clench.

"Stand, Pale King."

The King feels his heart shrivel, in an instant, the moment he registers who exactly was standing before him now. His blood chills to ice, his confusion and fascination dropping into that of absolute dread and fear, and he feels every muscle in his body grow taut with the urge to just run, run, and never looks back. He does not do any of those things. Instead, slowly, he brings himself back up to his feet, looking around to find that the darkness now had a hole punched through it where the light could now reach, and in that light, the distorted figure of Enkay was no longer there. 

He finally turns to face the Nightmare King, his heart feebly shaking within his chest, but knowing he could not show it. “...I do not know if you plan to exact punishment. From what I can gather, this place is sacred, holy, and I have done the equivalent of trespassing on the grounds of another God’s territory.” He sighs. “..It was not my plan to do this. A voice from the ghost of one I knew led me astray, to this place. But I understand if you choose to take action.”

The Nightmare King watches him silently, staring directly into his eyes as he explains himself. As he goes silent, his eyes wander to his hand, still clutching the charm, and then to his own disturbed statue. Slowly, his gaze returns to the Pale King. "I care not for how you got here. This place is almost as old as I am; bound to be just a touch haunted." He holds a hand out. "Show me your hands."

The King pauses for a moment, before slowly switching the Charm to one of his lower, more untouched hands. He then holds out his first set of hands towards the Nightmare King, wincing slightly at how utterly _drenched_ they were in ichor.

"I don't think anyone in all my years has ever _actually_ been stupid enough to go after those weeds." He huffs, holding the King's hands and looking them over before spontaneously setting them on fire. He clutches the King's wrists as he yelps and tries to move away. "I'm clearing the Void. Calm yourself."

That gets the King to huff for a moment, vaguely irritated at how almost nonchalant the God of Nightmares was acting. But then he pauses, his eyes going slightly wide. “..Void? That was Void?” He twists his head around just enough to peer at the vestiges of the brambles. “What was _Void_ doing at the foot of the statue? Why is it here? Why was it _solid_ ? Why was it in the form of _vines_ ?” He finally lifts the hand holding the Charm, vestiges of the Void brambles still hanging from its rim. “Why...Why do you have _this_...with you?”

The Nightmare King glowers at him, the flames snuffing themselves out, and says nothing. After a moment, he rounds the Pale King and kneels in front of the statue, ever so gently moving a hand near the blade of the old sword. "You ask personal questions and I have no patience to answer them. All you need to know is it happened. Grimm has told you many times that we know more about the Void than you do. He wasn't lying."

The King is silent for a moment, his gaze leaving the sight of that crimson shell for the briefest of moments, to peer down at the Charm still sitting pretty in his hand, stained by Void, staring back with hellishly white, empty eyes that offer nothing, and show nothing in return. He sighs softly, lowering his hand, glancing back up at towards the other God, almost hesitant to speak. “...What happens now?”

"What happens next..." He stands to his full height - definitely taller than Grimm, and lording it over the smaller King as he invades his personal space to glare at him some more. "...is we go back, and you tell _no one_ what you've found down here. Otherwise, we'll both be having problems."

The King stares for a moment, a long moment, his fear and panic at having been discovered falling away into nothing more than a growing pit of dread and confusion within his stomach. He glances back down, yet again, towards the Charm he had claimed, then back up towards Grimm’s face, frowning softly. “...You...aren’t going to take it back?”

"It's nothing more than a glorified gemstone to me."  He brushes past him and starts walking back to the door. "It has power, yes, but I've no use for it. Might as well give it to someone who needs it. Get the cursed thing off my hands for once. Who knows? Maybe you can lock it away for good or something."

That gets the King to stare for a moment, shocked at how easily, how _willingly_ the God of the Troupe was willing to give up something that clearly was meant to be hidden away, only found in the deepest depths of the main tent, in a nigh endless chamber, nestled within brambles that, as he were told, only the living could even so much as _touch_ without suffering some unforeseen consequence. All that trouble to hide it, literally burying it at the feet of their Master, and the King was just...allowed to keep it. His eyes flick back down toward the Charm, still dripping with the viscous Void beneath its rim, then up towards the visage of the Nightmare King, slowly starting to follow after him, catching up to his side. He keeps his head down, facing forward, before he lets out a sigh. “..I won’t tell a Soul, I promise you that. And again, I offer my apologies for trespassing on your grounds. I meant no disrespect, nor did I mean treachery, and even if you believe my words to be lies, they are the truth, pure and whole.”

"I know." He says it so simply yet sternly, and doesn't look at him or change his face in any way. But how would he know? The Nightmare King heaves out a breath. "What else did you see? The relics aren't the worst thing to stumble upon in here."

“I...” He pauses for a moment, looking away. “...I saw Grimm’s tapestry...” He clenches his fists. “...What did he do?”

"Hm. Probably what the tapestry shows, though they sometimes dramatize things a little too much." He goes silent for a moment, then peers at him through the corner of his eye. "He spent quite a while killing those who had wronged Enkay. The Troupe kept Hallownest’s location secret from him during all that time. You should count yourself lucky."

The King feels a small part of himself shrivel up at the sheer thought of it all. A vengeful Grimm, angry, bitter, torn asunder with rage, charging his forces into the grounds of his Kingdom to wage war on his people, spilling blood like water and killing all he could see, all in the name of avenging his father, who was slain by hands that were long dead and cold. Even now, standing there in the presence of the God that lay hidden amidst Grimm’s natural form, he had no true idea as to what he would’ve done, had that part of the Troupe Master’s history been seen with his own eyes. His claws clench, his stomach ties itself into a knot, and he trembles, his chest filling with that of anger, of grim resolve that if that possibility had ever come to pass, he would’ve killed Grimm, then and there, as was his duty as King and Guardian. But his heart ached, ached and bled and _twisted_ until it felt ready to snap, at the sheer thought of having to kill the child of his lost love, a love that, even now, as hard as he tries, he can’t help but still see in Grimm’s face. 

He lets out a sigh, softly. “....Thank the Gods that nothing happened, then. Please, give those that erased the existence of my Kingdom from Grimm’s eyes my deepest thanks. As much as I loathe to even think of it...It was best that he never knew I existed.”

The Nightmare King looks at him more fully, taking in the conflicting emotions that weary him so. He turns away, flexing his claws. "We'll do so next we sleep. I would still ask you to keep it secret. I can't ask you to hide it from your wife, but the others of your kingdom... It wouldn't do well for them to know."

“Of course.” He nods softly, his shoulders dropping, his heart still throbbing like it gained an open wound. “...I take it you still wish to discuss more with me? I have a ritual prepared by my Seer so that we can better commune on safer grounds.”

"Yes, I would appreciate that. I've devised a few plans to nudge Grimm into remembering. I can tell you more of the Void Heart as well. Perhaps a few other things." The last line comes almost mumbled, and he waves a hand at seemingly nothing. "So much housekeeping to do..."

The King goes quiet at that, merely looking back down towards the Charm, before slowly moving to rip off  the last few pieces of the vines, giving it a few shakes to let the rest of the Void sludge fly off of it’s surface, before finally tucking it into his robes, letting it rest in one of his many interior pockets. The entrance to the tent comes forth once more, illuminating the faint glow of the rest of the Troupe grounds outside, and it’s only when he lifts the curtains upward to peer out does he see the figures of Brumm, Divine, his Lady, Podzol, and Monomon, all standing there, waiting for him. He stands there for a moment, before sighing and stepping out of the tent entirely. “..My apologies. I did not mean to wander.”

"Are you alright?" The White Lady moves toward him, shooting hesitant looks at the Nightmare King. "They said you could have gotten hurt."

 

“Fairly certain it was just an unruly spirit playing tricks." The Nightmare King checks his nails, absently moving around the couple and standing beside his two disciples. "It ran off as soon as I appeared. He might be spooked, but he should be fine."

Brumm seemed to noticeably stiffen, his head momentarily dropping in what appears to be a stiff bow while Divine seems merely dips her upper half in what appears to be a more proper one. Monomon’s tentacles twitch slightly, humming to herself. “Say, Grimm...Why is your shell all red like that? Wasn’t it black before?”

"I'm not Grimm, and he likely won't remember the last few minutes." He waves a hand at Brumm and Divine. "It's been a while since I've done this with him, so he might not take very well. You two know what to do."

The two masked individuals both bow again, speaking in unison. “Yes, Master.” 

Monomon blinks. “Wait, what-?”

The Nightmare King takes a deep breath, eyes closing, and the crimson shade to his carapace recedes back to his chest. He sways, and Brumm holds his hands up to steady him. Grimm slowly blinks open his eyes, staring blankly at those around him. Brumm keeps a hand on his arm as he seems to steady himself.

"Master? Are you with us?"

"Brumm?" His eyes focus and unfocus on him. "Wasn't I just in...? Oh, dear..." He staggers, hands grasping blindly as his surroundings blurred.

"It's alright, Master." Divine brings the flat of a claw to his back as he grasps at Brumm. "You went through a possession, but everything's alright."

“Possession?! What?! He can be possessed?! How?! What just happened?!” Monomon’s voice as now arisen to an octave that wasn’t exactly that of screaming, but was tiptoeing dangerously close to the line, her tendrils shaking and curling, as if agitated, eager for answers. 

The King sighs and places a hand on the arm of the nearest tentacle, shaking his head softly. “It’s best not to ask. Some things should stay secret.”

 

••••

Wol pulls the medical tent flap back to peer up at the mountains of Howling Cliff. Podzol had insisted on leaving for reconnaissance, mostly because he was an experienced climber and had little more to do in regards of the camp. He had even argued with the Knights about it, who relented only under the harsh realities of his facts. Too much time had passed for his trip to merely be reconnaissance at this point. She sighs and returns to the lantern lit bedsides. Sedating already comatose patients was easy enough, but she was worrying about supply. There were only so many canisters they had managed to save from the tremors, and the only person who knew the formula was both paranoid _and_ foolish enough to climb exploding cliffs. She rubs her forehead and walks to the makeshift desk, jotting down some notes about the matter.

The wind brushing by the tent flaps was soft, almost unusually so, given that they were on the surface, exposed to the buffeting winds of the Cliff, and the gentle, swaying motions of the entrance was steady enough to blend into the background of her vision, to becoming nothing more than figurative white noise in her peripherals. It’s only when the sound of footsteps, solid and heavy, come close, the presence of a shadow growing on the wall of the makeshift cloth, that she even bothers to look up at all from her work, only to see a dark, clawed hand reach out to tug the curtain aside. A massive bug, large and stout, the tips of their horns (ears?) just barely brushing against the ceiling of the tent’s structure, slips through the flaps, his face cloaked in a dark hood, his hand clasped to a visible wound in his side, where blood-stained gauze hung, wrapped sloppily around his torso. His legs, at least four in total, stumble and sway, until he collapses to his knees in pain, his breathing sounding haggard, heavy, hoarse. “...Please...Please, help me...”

"Oh my-!" Her quill slips from her hands and she bolts toward the bug. Wol had rarely been anything more than short in height, stuck somewhere just below the average in her family, but she was even less likely to be considered weak; it was one of the few things she _didn't_ need to learn when becoming a doctor. She takes the newcomer by an arm, urging him to his feet. "Come further in, please. There's more space in the back, and the supplies would be closer. Please, can you stand?"

“..B...Barely..” He wheezes heavily, before managing to slowly bring his legs back up, back out of the mud, his eyes being seen peeking out from the cloak, looking glazed, blood-shot, pupils gaining an almost yellow tinge.

"Come, I'll help you." She keeps a gentle hand on his side, ready to catch him if he were to fall again. The look in his eyes troubled her, but she was certain it wasn't the same look the infected carried. "What happened? Quite a big gash... Did someone attack you? Where?"

“Crossroads...In the marketplace...” The bug grits his teeth, wincing heavily as he moves, hand shaking over the wound. “A guard...was infected. Stabbed me right through with his sword...”

"That's horrible. The guards have been so reliable through all this." Wol lowers him to the ground with his back against the crates and swiftly grabs a pair of scissors and bottle of disinfectant. "Gauze, gauze, gauze... Has it stopped bleeding at all? Definitely bleeding through, you'll need sutures..."

“I..I tried my best to stop the bleeding...Tried..cauterizing the wound, but..I don’t think I did it right...” He hisses again, shoulders rising as he almost doubles over from the pain. “Fuck, Ahh, shit...Do you have painkillers? I-I need painkillers!”

"Just - just a moment! Somewhere... Dammit, Podzol-" She pushes a tray of dishes and equipment to another crate and pulls open the lid. "Needles, thread - wait, cauterized, so... ointments, medications..." She pushes the unorganized drugs this way and that in the crate, muttering about labels and pulling one or two tubes and bottles out at a time.

Within seconds, a needle plunges itself into the joint between her head and her neck, and her mouth is covered by a large hand, holding her tiny frame steady even as she lets out a muffled scream. A thumb calmly presses down on the button of the syringe, letting the sedative flood into her system, and as the last few rivulets of the serum exits the glass, he lets out a soft sigh. “Forgive me, please.”

Wol hit at the arms holding her, not wanting to snap the metal in her shell while simultaneously panicking at the idea of forced sleep. Sleep was the last thing anyone needed! Her hits grew softer, more effort needed to raise her arm, tighten her fists, and she feels her legs jellify under her. The needle slides from her neck and she feels herself placed on the ground more than sees it, vision fading into darkness.

The Soul Master does his best to set her down as gently as possible, idly hoping that the plague would avoid corrupting her body while she was out; she was an innocent, and innocents did not deserve the fate that they were being given. He is quick to pick up the scattered medical equipment that was knocked onto the floor, setting it back onto the proper table, working on undoing the gauze that was already wrapped tight around his frame. “Alright....She is down...What do you wish me to do with the husks?”

The tall, thin bug who had been standing amidst the cots and had gestured him toward the fallen syringes turned weapons, gazed over the all-but-corpses surrounding them. "They'll need time to fight off the sedatives. Loosen their restraints. But take the pain medications. You'll need it. And more bandages. They can spare some."

“Hmm...Loosen the bonds?” He frowns softly, almost unsure. “That would mean they’d wake up.” He nonetheless wanders closer to one of them, claws already working at the leather straps. “The people in the Archives may be that of the King’s clan, but what of the injured?”

"This is merely a test. And a distraction." The bug walks to the tent flaps. "You know our goals. They have enough guards to take care of a handful of infected bugs. We need to know their response time."

“Hmm..A test...” He looks thoughtful, though his almost troubled tone fades away entirely. “Hadn’t thought of it that way.” He undoes the straps completely to the first husk, the second, the third, before finally shedding the gauze from his torso, grabbing a piece of cotton to wet it in disinfectant, biting what remains of his robes in order to muffle his pained growls and curses, shaking at the feeling of the medicine bubbling away at the scabbed, bleeding flesh of the gash in his side. His eyes flash and flicker, from white to yellow to orange, to white again, and his vision tilts, swirls, body growing numb with paralyzing heat. “Ggh...Hhh...”

"Careful. You're still in danger here."

“I know that!” He hisses again when the pain suddenly seems to flare, and his teeth damn near shatter from how hard his jaw clenches. When it finally fades, he nods softly, panting desperately to catch his breath, even as he pulls away the cotton, wet with blood and yellow pus. “I..I know....I need more magic...More souls...I need to find some way to heal this...this _damn_ stab wound.”

"If you need Soul, then take it." The bug shrugs easily. "We don't need all these bugs, anyways."

“Hmm...But they’re infected. What if that only worsens my condition? Makes me more susceptible to the plague?” He frowns again, harder, looking contemplative, but unsure.

"Plagued or not, they still have Soul. Your alternative is finding someone else to kill. The doctor seems promising."

His eyes flick to the little doctor that he had just put to sleep seconds earlier, and for a moment, he feels tempted. Horribly tempted. He swears he can _feel_ her soul, thrumming through the air, strong, lively, brimming with power, full of life compared to the weak, sickly beating of the lives within the husks, stagnant and full of the corroding tumors of infection. He shudders softly, feels the power of Soul sluggishly sliding through his veins, burning softly, but after another long moment, he turns away, to face the fourth and last husk in the room. “No. This will do.”

He raises his hand over their chest, letting his claws slowly begin to fill with white, shimmering light, before he plunges his hand downward, and he can’t help but let a grin come to his lips as the shell crushed and splits under his claws, blood and bile and gore spilling free to drip down the metallic surface of the table. Just behind him, he hears the gurgling rasp of the infected, slowly beginning to wake, slowly stirring from their slumber. His claws grasp on the soul, warm and weak, flimsy beneath his fingers, and though he grimaces at the feeling, his tongue sticking out in disgust, he lets the feeling of power, crackling and heated, like a buzz of lumaflies, pass over his shell. “Ggh....So weak...So frail...These husks truly are the foulest of foul...”

"All the more reason for death to all," the other murmurs, back still turned to the rousing dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/498629833740255232/624683035518042134/image0.png This is a picture of Talia! (Made by wingmould on tumblr, link down below) 
> 
> https://wingmould.tumblr.com/post/185169829435/request-for-corruptapostasy-of-their-ocs-podzol And this is a picture of Podzol!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo! Here we are with another chapter! And right on the eve of the most spooky holiday of the year! And boy do I have to say, this does indeed get spooky. We hope you enjoy it.

“So, hold on, this is still perplexing me. You claim that the Nightmare King can possess your body, but yet you also claim that you both are one and the same? How can that be? How can one be possessed by someone that is both already yourself and not?” Monomon’s tendrils slide and slither across the ground like wet, thick snakes as she tries to keep up with everyone else’s gait, her mask bobbing and weaving in erratic patterns in the air as her body tries to move properly so that walking can be achieved. It’s working, for the most part, but there’s still some innate clumsiness to it.

"And how does possession even work? Old lore says things about puppeteering bodies, but nothing about memories." Podzol strides ahead of her, just barely not able to keep pace with Grimm without jogging. "You said something about ancestral spirits. Are they like ghosts? Can ghosts possess people too? Or you?"

Grimm exhales heavily, rubbing his forehead with a single finger, and Brumm lets out a rumbling grumble in response. "Mrm... You two ask many questions."

"We're scientists," Podzol says blankly. "It's what we do."

“Some people say it’s ok to not know things. We have a word for those people: idiots.” Monomon raises one tendril in the air and waves it in an attempt to pantomime a finger, but in doing so ceases to walk. She then quickly starts to walk again, floundering for a second before regaining her previous pace.

"I think what Brumm is trying to say," Divine pipes up, deftly grabbing a tray and a half dozen drinks from kiosks they pass, "is that the Master might need some time before answering your questions. Possession is no easy thing to deal with."

"Then why don't you two answer our questions instead."

"What?" Divine chuckles, and Brumm sends Podzol a quick look over his shoulder. "Wow, no."

"That would be so much worse," Grimm mutters, taking a drink from Divine's tray. "Thank you."

Monomon perks up at the sight of the drinks, and tries to stretch out a tendril to tap her on the rump without completely ceasing to move. She just barely manages to do so. “Oh, uh, Divine, sweetheart, could you be a dear and dump one of those on me? All the heat is starting to dry out my skin.”

"Oh, this is coffee, deary. I don't think you wanna be doused in this."

As if on cue, Grimm splutters, almost spitting up the massive gulp he had taken and halting in place. "Eugh, gods! This is Daswani's coffee, Divine. Do you _know_ how many shots of espresso she uses?"

"At least twenty-seven. On a good day." She grins at him. "How you feeling though?"

"Definitely awake." He sets the coffee back on the tray. " _So bitter_."

"Water." Brumm holds two cups out, one toward Monomon and another toward Grimm.

“Oh, thank you-Uh, just, um, stop walking, stop walking for a sec-there we go!” She misses the cup at least twice before finally managing to grab ahold of it, wasting no time and pouring it over her head, letting out an audible sigh, tendrils all curling and wiggling around in an effort to soak up every drop. “Ahhh...Much better. Was getting a bit tight in the metaphorical chest there.”

Grimm all but turns on his heel at her words. "Oh, dear me, where are my manners? We should get you back to your tank, and you-" He gives Podzol a strange look. "-you can't be around for the torches either, so-"

"Hey, wait!" Podzol frowns at him. "What about our questions?"

Grimm sighs, then rubs his hands together. "Alright, so the title 'Nightmare King' is used for multiple different forms, among them being the First, the Current, and the Conglomeration. We're different entities on different levels of power but still part of the same metaphysical being, so we are simultaneously the same but different, and as such share the same body and mind at both all times and never, and it's _very_ complicated. All my past selves can possess me if they can overcome my will, unless I allow them to - again, complicated. Essentially, they're interjecting their personality and knowledge onto my body and temporary kicking me out of the, er, driver's seat, hence why I don't remember anything from the duration of their stay. The old lore is correct but incomplete, and mostly talking about poltergeists and demonic entities, although ghosts do share some traits and may be capable of possessing people if the need arises. Ghosts wouldn't even dare to try messing with me, and it's incredibly hard for them to possess people, so they tend to stick to inanimate objects _if_   they even desire to do so, which is rare." He looks between them. "Anymore questions?"

There was a few long seconds, and then Monomon shakes her head silently.

"Good!" He claps his hands together, straightening somewhat. "Then I can send you two back, yes?"

"Master, I'm not sure you should-"

"If you absolutely have to," Podzol grumbles.

Monomon curls her tendrils close. "I definitely need a good soak."

"Okay, then I'll just-"

"Master, you really shouldn't do that so soon after-"

Grimm takes their hands, shaking them diplomatically. "Pleasure to meet you both. Hopefully we can talk some more soon. Have a pleasant trip!"

The two disappear in a haze of red smoke.

Brumm runs a hand over his face, muffling his grumbles. "Where did you put them?"

Grimm blinks at him, then scoffs lightly. "I put them near where we..." He frowns. "Oh. Whoops. Slight miscalculation there."

The King, who had been walking slightly ahead, turns his head to look back. “What did you do?”

Grimm waves a hand, laughing lightly at himself. "Nothing, nothing. Just... accidentally teleported them... across the field instead of near Lady Monomon's acid tank. Still a little frazzled." He starts walking again, and as he passes Divine, he points at the coffee still on her tray. "That coffee is ghastly. Never give it to me again... Unless you make it sweeter."

Divine just rolls her eyes. “Tch. Weak.” She takes a big slurp of said coffee, practically draining it in one go. She looks back to see if Talia is still following them, and spots what appears to be her and a group of GrimmKin, all of them in one straight line, carrying large pieces of lumber, metal, kindling, and other such necessities in their arms. Talia herself was walking, carrying at least four neatly cut logs in her arms, her abdomen glowing ever so slightly brighter than usual. “So, we’re actually going to put torches down? Aren’t we trying to save this place?”

"The torches should actually help this time around." Grimm rubs his hands together, lacing his fingers and stretching them without cracking his knuckles. "They'll give me access to put nightmares into the citizen's minds in place of dreams, which will put a halt to the spread of the dream plague in Hallownest. Simple."

“Since when is anything we try to do simple?” She sips again at her coffee cup.

"Well, I mean, we have to keep one of the torches unlit-"

"That's not possible."

"Which is why I have to be there-"

"The torches don't light in your presence."

"Trust me." He puts his hands in the air. "It'll be _fine_. Just do everything like normal. I have a plan."

“Can you guarantee that this _amazing_ plan of yours won’t backfire and piss off the big man and result in some horrible unforeseen consequence that can’t quite be explained happening?” She raises an incredulous brow.

"I can guarantee that my incredibly, beautifully thought out plan won't end horrendously and doom us all, yes."

“That’s not my question. My question is, can you avoid pissing off the head honcho?” She raises her brow higher, looking even more incredulous.

"Yes, of course. He probably already knows." He trills his claws along his chin, looking around. "Where is Cassandra? I need them to watch the Child while we're gone."

“I’m sure they’re busy back at the main tent with them. They’ll be fine.” Brumm pats his arm, gently.

"Hmm..." He slows down a little, both hands pressed together in front of his lips. "I don't like leaving so soon after getting back..."

“The Child is asleep, aren’t they? If we do this quick enough, then you can be back before they wake up.” Divine reaches to pat his shoulder as well.

"Yes...." He huffs. "Okay. Straight to the quad then, so they can let the torches down and distribute them. We need at least three more people than usual to help with assembly."

“Right.” Divine looks back towards Talia and the GrimmKin, raising a talon and flicking it thrice. Talia raises a wing in response, her abdomen letting out a glow that pulses thrice, and slowly, more masked individuals start appearing from the tents, lining up next to the spirits who were already carrying things and taking the equipment from their arms, to which the GrimmKin fade from sight. 

The King can’t help but tilt his head upwards to watch the process, fascinated with it all, idly wondering how much material would be needed to craft the fabled torches. He finally looks towards Grimm. “Do you know where we’ll need to plant them? Or do we just wander towards the Cliffs until we find an appropriate area?”

"I have a bit of an idea. Saw an old map while I was putting the Child to bed." He watches the Grimmkin for a moment before looking ahead, lowering his hands and trying to fully collect himself. "There's a little alcove that's a little tricky to find right along the entrance of the kingdom. Perfect place for the torches to go."

“Hmm...Very well.” He nods softly, then looks back, looks forwards, his head kept slightly down, a hand still clutching the charm through the pocket of his robes. “...I really hope this works..”

"Oh, it will. The dynamics between nightmares and dreams aren't as difficult as you'd think." Grimm speaks softly, almost absently, as they reach a clearing within the Troupe grounds. "Radiance has no physical presence, so the amount of power she can output is nowhere close to what I can. She will have no way of fighting for the minds I lay claim to." 

“Hmm...I see.” He nods once, but says nothing else, his expression not changing from what it was before. 

The Lady looks back towards Grimm, tilting her head slightly. “If I may ask...What exactly gives the torches the omen of destruction? I’ve heard many legends of how just one being lit is enough to call upon doom to any God who sees it.”

"Hm?" He frowns and looks at her. "Oh, it's my magic that does it. But that's not how it works. You need all the torches lit to guarantee anything at all. Nightmares _can_ reach into reality after all. My torches make a sort of.... weak spot for the nightmare to take hold of and punch through, if you can imagine it."

“I see...” She nods softly in understanding, glancing back towards the King for a moment, before looking ahead.

Grimm takes a breath and turns to look over the bugs gathering their equipment. "Okay, time to get this show on the road. Everyone!" About a dozen masks turn toward him. "This is slightly unorthodox to how we usually do this, but I'm going to need everyone to come closer to me. I'll be teleporting all of us to the site, and I don't want anyone ending up in a wall like last time. Alright?"

All of the masks stare for a moment before they nod, and they slowly start to move closer and closer to Grimm, some looking nervous while others look determined. The King watches this for a moment before he too takes a step closer, as does the Lady. Divine glances left and right, but then grins, chuckling to herself. “Been a while since I could help out with torches. This will be interesting.”

"Definitely, definitely." Grimm crosses his arms laxly, looking over the bugs as they settle. After a moment, he nods. "Okay, good enough. Everyone hold tight. We're gonna make this fast."

He snaps his finger and the entire group is swallows in mild flames, a short moment of breathlessness passing before the darkness dissipates into rocky terrain and howling winds.

Some of the bugs immediately fall to their knees, gasping and coughing while others stumble, left shaken from the sudden transformation of smooth sandy dunes to rocky, uneven dirt. The King himself has to flap his wings to keep himself balanced while the Lady’s roots curl back up, and she’s left coughing into her hand. Brumm and Divine remain standing, seemingly completely unaffected.

"Again, I am so sorry." Grimm puts a hand on the White Lady's and Pale King's arms, but looks around at everyone. "Very few people can acclimate to my method of travel."

“It’s...It’s alright. Don’t worry.” The King lifts a hand to wave away Grimm’s own. 

“Yes...P...Perfectly fine, my dear...” The Lady coughs once more before seeming to get it under control, finally taking the moment to look around. “Are we...Are we still in the Cliffs?”

"Yes, actually." Grimm looks around as well, trying to orient himself to the maps he had seen. "Close to your bridge, I believe. There should be..." He cranes his neck back, scanning the ceiling, then walks a little ways ahead, scanning the ground, before exclaiming and hopping slightly. "Ah, yes! It's a little ways this way. There should be a drop somewhere nearby...." He starts walking, not paying any heed to whether or not the others would follow him.

“H-How do you know where it is?” The Lady quickly turns to follow, very clearly trying to get away from the leftover smoke of the teleportation, her roots slowly unfurling. The King glances back towards the masked followers, whom were all looking towards Talia, her wings spreading wide as she starts to walk along the path, following Grimm’s trail. Brumm and Divine began to follow as well, and soon, the entire group were quick to move.

"I had a map!" He looks about, turning haphazardly and at times walking backward. "I'm very good with maps. They stick with me."

Divine sidles up to the Queen, lower her voice. "Fairly certain Enkay made maps of the place when he was here. Any nook and cranny he could find."

"Here's the drop!" Grimm peers down at a small, five foot long hole in the ground. "Doesn't look too far down..."

Talia is quick to hold out a hand, to which all the masked followers stop moving. The King glances back, seeing this, and moves forward to the edge, his wings spreading open. “Perhaps I can check to see if there is anything at the bottom?”

"Oh, sure." Grimm blinks at him slightly. "I was thinking of doing the same thing myself."

He says nothing, merely glancing out of the corner of his eye towards Grimm, before making the leap. He glides downwards, the wind whistling past his shell for a good three seconds before he lands on his feet, letting his shell glow more and more to illuminate the area around him. He begins to turn his head left and right, eyes narrowed, tail idly twitching beneath his robes.

Grimm crouches near the entrance, watching him closely. The drop was definitely one they all could make. "Anything down there, old friend?"

Something about those words made the King’s eye twitch, and he had to grit his teeth to keep the anger and irritation from flaring in his mind. Grimm didn’t know what he had found. He didn’t know what he had seen. He doesn’t deserve his newly found ire, not when he’s going out of his way to aid him. There is a time and a place for such a revelation, and now is not such a time. 

He lifts his head back up, towards those piercing red eyes. “There’s nothing, you can come down.”

"Brilliant." He looks back at the White Lady. "Would you like to go first, dear Queen? Or should I?"

She gives him a smile and pats his arm. “No, no, it’s fine. I can go next.” She reaches down to bunch up her robes, lifting it off the ground, before making the leap, and as she hits the ground below, everyone idly feels the dirt beneath them shake.

Grimm grins, though a few of his clan mutter worriedly. "Don't worry. It's not as far as it sounds. If anyone needs any help, I can assist, and once we get a few people down there, we'll set a bit of a net up, like we do for some of our practice routines."

“But don’t those nets break?” One of the followers cries out from inside the crowd. 

Divine huffs, an antenna twitching in displeasure. “Oh, hush up. A little fall isn’t gonna kill ya. I can take a fall like that with my arms tied behind my back.”

"You do have plenty of legs, though," Grimm remarks. "And the answer is no. We don't run a circus around here, and definitely not while _I'm_ around. All my nets are strengthened, and if anyone still doesn't trust that, I'll escort you personally. Alright?"

There was silence afterwards, and all of the masked fellows nod their heads. Talia is the first to approach Grimm, giving him a good-natured wink before spreading her wings, a quick flap sending her down into the hole, wisps of embers floating through the air. Grimm, Brumm, and Divine follow close behind, and it's only a short matter of time before the others follow suit. Some slide down the walls, not wanting to risk the fall, while others wait for the net. Quite a few of those who waited fall into the net with a flourish of some kind. Grimm claps his hands at each, remarking on their execution and style.

The King watches them all individually fall, and though he finds himself smiling at the sight of Grimm applauding his followers, a bitter lump in his chest keeps that smile from really growing. He forces himself to look away, not wanting to think any further on what he’s seen. It was not his place to see. It was not his place to know. But he did, and now, what could truly be said?

Grimm remains entirely oblivious to his internal quandries, though the White Lady notes his silence. Once everyone made it to the platform, Grimm takes a breath and starts walking down a long corridor seemingly leading to a dead end. "Alright, alright. This should be it. Let's look at what we have here...."

Talia makes a sweeping gesture with an arm, and soon, all the followers start dropping their supplies into piles. Kindling, lumber, charcoal, metal hatches meant to cover flames, almost too many things to keep track of. Divine and Brumm start to march up and down the rows, thoroughly looking through every pile, as if searching for something, only pausing once in a while to make a comment here and there. 

“Mrm. Separate the leaves from the branches.”

“Try to break the coal into smaller pieces.”

“It’s not diluted enough. Mix it more.”

Grimm stands in the middle of it all, hands templed as he looked around. He could see the placement of the torches already, the spacing between each and the little spaces that would make them seem hidden and out of place to an outsider's eye. There were many things to think of with placement, especially with so many more torches than were typical. He could easily tune out the noises around him as he considered which rocks needed to be moved or if stalactites would become an issue. The King meanwhile, is silent, eyes periodically flicking back and forth from the crowd of followers to Grimm, noting how silent and still he’s grown, and he can’t help but feel a subtle sense of unease creep down his spine. Something didn’t feel exactly right, though he wasn’t sure how or why. It was...unsettling.

The Queen shifts next to him. "They certainly are busy workers, aren't they? I can barely keep track of what they're doing." She brushes a hand against his shoulder. "Are you alright? You have one of those looks on your face."

He blinks before he moves to glance at her, his expression looking almost affronted. “What looks? What are you talking about?”

" _That_ look." She points at him, holding back a small chuckle despite the serious look on her face. "You're all pouty and quiet and analyzing things. What's going on in there?"

“...Nothing, my dear. It’s nothing.” He looks away. “I’ve just had a long day is all. I’m not exactly looking forward to what comes next after this...”

“I know...I know you will..” He lifts a hand to cover the one against his skin, slowly slipping his claws between her fingers. Some of the tension slips from his shoulders, and he sighs harder.

"It's a rough day today, but tomorrow will be better." She smiles softly.

"Ah, a few inches to the left!" Grimm suddenly starts moving again, hurrying toward a bug that was beginning to prop a torch near the far wall. "We _cannot_ risk anything falling onto that one and we need a perfect star for this to work."

Brumm looks up at the sound of his voice and huffs, handing the string and wood that he had been working with to the bug next to him and following Grimm. "Master, please, you know you can't be so close to the torches."

Divine also looks up, and her expression shifts to that of irritation as she lets out a heavy groan. “Ugh, Grimm, do I need to put you in another headlock again?”

His hands dart into the air and he skids to a halt a few feet away from a bug who had started pressing themself into the wall at his approach. "No, I'm fine! I'm not touching it-"

" _Center_ of the room." Brumm gives him a serious look, tone almost reprimanding.

"I was just going to point out that the ceiling is slightly compromised above-"

"Center of the room." Brumm turns him around, pushing the god back to where he had previously been stationed.

“Ugh, I swear we need to put a leash on him sometimes..” Divine shakes her head, grumbling a few more obscenities under her breath. 

“..Is something wrong?” The King raises a brow. 

Divine waves a talon dismissively in his direction. “It’s just complicated torch rules and shit. No need to worry your pointy little head about it.”

“But-“

She narrows her eyes at him, giving him a sharp glare. “It’s nothing, now shut up before I decide to use your weird spike things as tooth picks.” 

He goes silent for a moment, a hand drifting to one of his spires, grumbling softly. “It’s a crown...”

The White Lady puts her hands on his shoulders protectively, frowning at Divine. "And they’ll stay on his head until I say otherwise."

"Sorry, sorry." Grimm waves off Brumm. "Just - a few notes?"

"Mrm. I've already figured it out, Master. Stop worrying."

"But-"

"No."

"Did you get-"

" _Yes_."

Everyone around them seems to freeze at that, and although Divine’s gaze is fixed on the Lady, the brewing irritation and anger that’s in her eyes fades, and she looks away, one of her many legs scratching absently into the dirt. “.....Pardon us. This isn’t exactly easy for us either.”

Grimm fidgets, finally standing where he was before, and watches as Brumm returns to his work.  His claws flex slightly, looking now at the bugs working around him, giving quite a few of his looks to a singular bug wearing a bright red, patchwork suit. He taps his fingers against his leg before looking away again.Said patchwork bug appeared to be a bit bigger than the others, towering over the smallest of the masked workers, and looked to be some type of centipede. It sat there, silent, practically immobile, watching as the torches slowly began to be constructed, filled, lifted in the air. In it’s hands was a small plate of what looked to be food, to which it would occasionally lift up their mask to take bites. The King watches this one as well, his eyes narrowing just a touch. “Hmm...”

Grimm's eyes land on the King and Queen, reminded of their guests by some frantic shuffling of duties through his mind, and notes the King watching the crimson bug. He takes a breath, glancing around the room again, and takes several definitive strides before Brumm could notice. He raises his hands again. "I'm - I'm leaving. Don't worry. Just - carry on, everyone." He walks quickly to the King and Queen. "You two should come with me."

The King’s attention quickly shifts to that of Grimm, and he can’t help but blink, confusion blooming across his face. “What? Why?”

He rubs his hands nervously, occasionally glancing over his shoulders at the others' work. "They need their space to put this together. And the Ritual... It requires privacy. Something of a custom, I suppose you could say."

The King stares for a moment, and something in his gut slowly tightens, and he feels a creeping chill crawl up his spine. His eyes flick to the patchwork centipede, and back to Grimm, before slowly turning to walk back towards the direction of the hole. “Of course.” 

The Lady stares for a moment, frowning softly at Grimm, before she reaches out to take his hand. “Perhaps you should step outside with us? You seem a bit skittish, dear.”

"Yes, um. Of course." He brushes past her, and the King, still kneading his hands together, head bowing and shoulders tense. The look on his face contorts and tightens with an emotion neither of them had seen before.

The Lady stares in shock for a moment, before slowly moving to follow. The three of them all make their way out of the hole, whether by flying or jumping or simply teleporting, and soon, the three of them are walking further and further away from the drop where the torches are being placed. The King’s head is down, his eyes narrowed, and the creeping chill has extended from his spine to his claws, clenching and unclenching his fists. Something was wrong. Something was _wrong_. He could feel it, but he didn’t know how, and it was bothering him.

At some point, Grimm stops walking away and instead starts pacing between the walls in the wide corridor they found themselves in. His hands were clenched around each other, knobby knuckles pressed against his lips. His jaws clench and unclench, the muscle under his shell pulsing with the strange rhythm.

The Lady was staring in absolute concern, reaching out a hand to Grimm’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “My dear, Grimm, is something wrong? You look troubled. What is it? You can tell me.”

The King lifts his head, watching, waiting. He idly wondered if Grimm would do the better thing and just come clean.

He jumps slightly at the touch, looking the White Lady in the eyes for a few moments before looking away. "It's... I merely don't... This is the part I don't like. I can't...." He takes a deep breath. "I can't do anything. I don't like it."

She blinks, eyes going wide. “...What?” She moves a touch closer, another hand hesitating as it hovers over his arm. “..Grimm, what are you talking about?”

He shrinks from the touch and pulls himself out of her clutches, taking a few steps away and keeping his back to them. "It's... Troupe Matters. I can't discuss it with outsiders. I'm sorry."

The King stares, his eyes narrowing, and he feels the chill in his veins harden into icy barbs, his heart twisting in a way that is both a sharp flare of pain and a cold, bitter numbness that makes anger flare in his gut. He turns, takes a step away from them, and lets his senses slowly creep out, towards the group of souls that he felt, congregating in the pit below. There's silence for a long moment. The Queen looks between the two, unsure what else to say, or if she should risk asking another question. The King merely focuses on his hidden task, finally seeing little blips of reddish soul, the dozen or so who had come with them. They stood in a circle, or as close to one as was possible, with one in the center. Grimm twitches, shifting where he stands, slowly turning toward them. He stares at the King.

"What are you...?" His eyes widen and he strides toward him. "No! I told you to give them _privacy-_ "

The King turns to face Grimm, and his face speaks volumes. He saw, he knew, and the glare he was giving Grimm was enough to freeze entire mountains, though his face never once contorted or rippled. His claws were balled into fists, and he stared, stared into Grimm’s frantic, panicked, _guilty_ expression, contempt and rage and anger all brewing deep in his frozen heart, aching to burst free, aching to get out and unleash it’s havoc. Even when the great killer of kingdoms tried to escape his past, it seems he could never fail to keep blood off of his hands. 

He turns away, and says nothing.

Grimm stops short, recognizing the look, and tenses, waiting for the verdict to come. He had seen that look in almost every other kingdom he had been to, had seen it on some of his own clan member's faces even. To think he'd seen it on the Pale King, someone he may not fully know, but still, for whatever reason, trusted.... He swallows roughly and marches forward, passing the King and walking toward the drop.

The King doesn’t move, merely watches him pass, and it’s only when Grimm drops down and out of view does he let out a deep, deep sigh, the icy anger fading away into something more...melancholic, something that made it feel as if his heart went numb. Did he really feel so angry about the loss of that one life? Or was it merely the vestiges of his horror over the bodies of the Troupe Master’s past that took advantage and roared to life, like kindling catching on fleeting embers? He didn’t know, and he didn’t want to know. Not really. All he wanted at this point was to just let it lie, and hope it rots away in the dirt.

"What just happened?" The White Lady walks up to him, putting a hand on his shoulder and turning him toward her. "Did you use your Soul magic to watch them?"

“...Yes, I did. It was my mistake. The warning Grimm has given me simply slipped my mind.” He rests a hand on her own, looking away, not able to stare her in the face.

She sighs lightly. "I hope he's not too offended. He already looked pretty stressed about this."

“I’ll make sure to apologize when he returns.” He squeezes her hand, looking back towards the drop.

"You better." She goes silent for a moment, eyes following his line of sight. "I don't think I ever saw Enkay that nervous."

“I suppose he simply hid it better.”

 

••••

"So, do you think Mr. Grimm actually has cotton candy?" Quirrel jumps onto a stool, sitting on the edge, and leans forward, eyes darting between the Knight and the Watcher. "I hear it's really hard to make."

Both Dryya and Lurien would have commented on the child's precarious sitting arrangement, but instead hold their tongues. Quirrel had been pacing and hopping in place and _almost_ vaulting across the room gushing over the Nightmare King's ability to teleport at will. Most of it was said too quickly to be understood, but there were short moments when he paused to ask a question about some obscure theory or whatever that Lurien was vaguely capable of answering. That he had finally chosen to sit on his own - Dryya had reprimanded him too many times to count, and Lurien had even offered fainter suggestions, but it only seemed to further the child's excitement - but now that he was sitting, and had changed the topic away from unknowable, godly magic, there was no way either of them were going to risk upsetting the balance slowly setting upon him.

Dryya herself merely shrugged slightly, honestly having no idea as to what exactly “cotton candy” even was. “I haven’t the foggiest clue. I’ve only heard of the Nightmare King from legends, much less caught a glimpse of his clan.”

Lurien, from his position on the bed, waved a hand absent-mindedly. “I’m looking right now. They got it, and a bunch of other weird stuff, including what looks like fried jellyfish.” He then  pauses, and though his mask blocks the movements of his eyes, it’s clear his gaze shifts to Quirrel. “Erm...I’m sure they aren’t the talking kind of jellyfish though.”

"Oh, that's good." He relaxes slightly, swinging his legs. "Monomon's told me about smaller jellyfish like that. There used to be a bunch where she was born, before she came out here." His fingers roll against the wood of his seat and he hums lightly. "I wonder how many places they've been to. 'Troupe' kinda implies they move around a lot, right? I think he mentioned something about other kingdoms..."

Lurien, seemingly relieved, nods sagely, trying not to think about how _happy_ Monomon would be to eat her own kind when they’re deep fried and on a stick. “Oh yeah, the clan always travels everywhere. From my understanding, it used to be for survival, but now they do it to spread the word of their entertainment and all that.” He pauses, head tilting down to his lap, mumbling a bit. “Though, considering recent events, I might have to change that hypothesis...”

"Why's that?" Quirrel blinks up at him, leaning ever so slightly closer. "Mr. Grimm definitely seems like an entertainer. I'd think he's good at music. Maybe he can do a handstand." His eyes go wide at the thought.

That gets Lurien to chuckle, softly, while Dryya tilts her head slightly. “I’m certain he can, I don’t see why he wouldn’t.”

"I've heard of people able to hold themselves up with only their fingertips." The thought seems a bit too much for him, his sentence dragging on for a moment before he shakes his head. "I don't think he'd do it all the time, though. Handstands. Like, he seems really... refined isn't exactly the word, but, like, I dunno. He _definitely_ strikes me as a music person, though. Did you see how he walked?"

“Not really, considering the state of my lungs right now.” Lurien chuckles a bit at that. “Yeah, I think a love of music and all that art stuff is like, a genetic trait or something. From what I’ve seen anyway.”

"Monomon says things like that are learned, not passed down." He frowns slightly. "I guess he could have learned from his dad? But. Erm. He's, like, a god, right? Do gods have dads? Or moms?" He frowns harder. "Is that possible?"

Lurien seems to stiffen ever so slightly, while Dryya hums in thought. “I do not think so. The Gods, once in existence, are said to be eternal. Though...” She frowns softly. “...That does complicate what Grimm told the King and Queen...”

"What did he tell them?" Quirrel blinks blankly at her.

“I...” She frowns harder. “I don’t think I should tell you, Quirrel. It’s...complicated.”

"Adult stuff?"

“Erm....Yes, I suppose it could be put that way.”

"Monomon says that every now and then when I ask certain questions." He shrugs, continuing to kick his feet. "Usually I can find the answer in a book somewhere, though."

“Heh...Eager for knowledge, aren’t you?” Lurien lets out a small chuckle. “Reminds me of the King.”

He flushes and looks away. "Oh, I, well..." He mumbles something under his breath. "I'm nothing like _the King_. I just like have questions answered. It's nice."

“Yeah? So did he.” Lurien laughs again, a bit softer now. “I remember him tearing through books trying to find the answer he wanted, night after night after night. Very ambitious, I suppose. When he wants to answer a question he has, he will do whatever he can to find the solution.”

"And that's what he's doing with the infection?" The words are quieter, and his brows draw together in worry.

There’s silence for a moment, and then he sighs. “...Yes. He’s trying, kid. He’s trying so...so hard.”

"I know." He bumps the heel of his foot against his stool. "Everyone's trying really hard. I just wish the infection wasn't doing the same."

That gets a bitter laugh, and Lurien nods, a hand slipping under his mask, ducking his head so they can’t see what lies beneath. “...So do I, kiddo.”

Dryya frowns at him softly, then turns toward Quirrel. "Do you want to take a walk? You still seem to have some energy in you."

"Uh." He thinks for a minute. "Sure. A short one though. I don't want Monomon worrying about me again if they come back soon."

Dryya nods, before turning to Lurien. “We’ll be back shortly.” She then bows. 

“Yeah, yeah...Go ahead...” He doesn’t look up.

Quirrel hops down from his stool and toward Dryya, but grins widely at Lurien. "I hope you feel better."

He finally looks up at that, and for a moment, Quirrel sees a glimpse of white skin before the hand slips away and his mask is firmly pushed back into place. “...Thanks, Quirrel.”

His grin widens a bit more and he takes Dryya's hand as she escorts him into open air. He looks up at her. "So, where should we walk to?"

Dryya’s head turns from left to right as she surveys the idle bustle of the camp, from the guards, to the doctors, to those attempting to get back up on their feet from the injuries, and she hums idly before she starts to walk away from the tent. “I intend to join Ogrim and Hegemol on guard duty. Just to check the perimeters and make sure that it is clear.”

"Oh, okay." He follows closely, glancing around at the people who pass them. Most of them are frequenters of the Archives, but there's still a few here and there he doesn't recognize at all. "There's a lot of people here."

“I’m sure many doctors in the kingdom are hard at work up here, trying to aid the injured. It’s good to see so many up and about, I suppose. Means that a lot of people are getting better.” She shrugs idly, her hand, for once, loose by her sword, not on the handle of her sword.

"That's good. If most of the injuries were from acid, they should be easy to handle. People in the Archives are used to them."

“I see...” She tilts her head a bit. “I do not understand why Monomon has chosen such a hazardous substance for her Archives, though. If it’s capable of burning and eating away at the shell, why use it to store words?”

"Well, whatever's written in the acid stays theoretically forever. Nothing can corrupt it so long as they're in their capsules." He hops over a small puddle. "Stone tablets keep well, but they're heavy, and books are light, but don't last long. And water is an issue for both. And there's a lot of water in the kingdom. And lots of water problems."

“Heh...Yes, I suppose there is.” She chuckles. “I honestly don’t know why the King decided to build the capital under a lake.”

"It's really pretty!" He jumps over another puddle, landing on one foot and balancing until Dryya meets him again. "Also, easy access to water filtration and pumping."

“Smart little thing, aren’t you?” She smiles a bit more. “Lady Monomon must teach you a lot.”

"Uh-huh!" He nods enthusiastically. "I read a lot too, since she has a lot of projects and stuff to attend to. She has _lots_ of maps of the Kingdom in her private collections. Like, _a lot_."

“Oh, that sounds wonderful. I’ve heard tales of her being one of the main architects that designed the tunnels of the Crossroads, the elevators in the City, even the tram project.”

"She's always in everything." He grabs her hand quickly and points across the way. "Ooh! I think I can see Sir Hegemol!"

Indeed, there were two figures up ahead, one of which holding a mace in both hands, idly twirling it back and forth, while the other seemed to be upside down in the middle of a one-armed handstand. Dryya is quick to lift up a hand, giving a wave as they approach the two, the beginnings of what look to be houses and cabins surrounding them, one or two menderbugs walking around the area. “Nothing to report, I hope!” 

Ogrim blinks, looking surprised. “Oh, didn’t you see you there, Dryya! _Hup_ -!” With a grunt of effort, he jumps into the air on his one arm and manages to land on his feet, giving a salute to her. “Nothing that we’ve seen so far!”

Hegemol nods softly. “Yup, all quiet.”

"Whoa! That was a really neat handstand!" Quirrel jogs up to them, starting to jump in place in front of Ogrim. "You gotta teach me some day!”

Ogrim blinks, but then he grows a big grin on his face and bends down to meet Quirrel’s level, a hand moving to pat the top of his head. “Ohoho! You wish to be taught the skills of the great White Defender? Why, I’d be honored to do so! The events from this morning have definitely shown off your potential!”

Quirrel's eyes widen to the size of dinner plates and he vaguely starts vibrating in place, a small noise escaping from under his mask.

Dryya narrows her eyes on him. "I swear, Ogrim, he just _stopped_ bouncing all over the place."

He waves a claw in cheery dismissal. “Oh, let the boy bounce, Dryya! That energy needs to go somewhere! I bet he’d pop like a tick if he didn’t use it up somehow! Hoho!” He chortles to himself. 

Hegemol pipes up. “You’re just mad because the King won’t let you bounce all over the Palace.” 

“Poppycock!”

Quirrel finally lets out a chuckle, returning to bouncing in place, albeit reaching a rather impressive height this time around. "Oh my gods, Monomon is gonna _freak out_ when I tell her about this." 

“I bet she will! To know that her precious child will be the apprentice of the great Ogrim! Ohh, what to teach you first...” He taps his chin with a claw, stepping from foot to foot in a frantic fashion, looking close to start bouncing himself. 

“Nothing involving _dung_ , Ogrim.” Hegemol gives him a pointed look.

“Hush, hush, I’m thinking!” He waves a claw again, face scrunching up in a intense expression.

Dryya turns her head just so, and her eyes widen as she sees a figure limping toward them, covered in a cloak, an arm hanging by their side while another was left shaking, feebly clutching their side. Their breathing was tight, a frantic gasping, and they hasten their gait as soon as they catch sight of the group. “He...Help! You....You need to help me! I...I got bit! I got bit!”

The knights all perk up at the words, turning toward the injured bug. Quirrel stops bouncing and glances around them at the cloaked figure. Dryya takes a few steps forward, one hand hovering near her hip. "You were bit? When?"

“I...I...” The figure freezes at the sight of her hand close to her sword. “..It...It was an hour ago! Just an hour! It was...It was a guard in the Crossroads! It got infected somehow! No one...No one saw how! Please, please help me!” 

“Dryya...” Hegemol’s fingers tighten over his mace ever so slightly. It was a question, a silent one.

She's quiet for a moment, eyeing over the bug, and gives him a short look of confirmation before relaxing slightly and taking the last few steps toward them. She offers a hand. "Let me see."

The shoulders of the figure seem to sag in relief, and they wobble slowly, closer, closer, a hand reaching out into the air, shaking softly. “Oh..Thank you...Thank you...” They come within inches of Dryya’s hand, before their fingers suddenly wrap tight around her wrist, another hand coming up to hover inches away from her eyes. “Blind fools.” 

Within seconds, a blinding flash of bright, burning light, fills the air.

" _Fuck_!" Dryya tries to stumble back, but the hand holds her tight. She pats blindly at her side, at her nail with her nondominant hand before a force blasts her chest, sending her careening back toward the group of Knights. She hits the ground with a clamor of metal as the flash finally dies away.

Hegemol takes a step back, his free arm in front of his eyes. He catches sight of Dryya, scrambling on the ground and wincing through squinting eyes. Another quick glance shows Ogrim in his shell, easily blocking the blast from reaching Quirrel, who had frozen instead of reacting.

The figure in front of Dryya lets their cloak fall, revealing a grinning face and claws swelling with a white glow. Hegemol looks up, just in time to see two more massive lights approaching, and dives toward Dryya. “LOOK OUT!” 

There was a massive crash, rocks and rubble and dust sent up into the air as two large craters scar the ground. Two more figures appear through the dust, power floating above their palms, while the main figure steps through the smoke, pulling a blade from an unseen scabbard. “Attack! Kill them all!”

Ogrim pops out of his shell, taking a heavy stance in front of Quirrel. "Quirrel! You need to get out of here!"

He blinks rapidly, snapping out of whatever shock he had been thrown into, and darts his eyes around them. Hegemol swung his mace at a bug glowing with energy as Dryya pulled herself to her feet with the help of a crate. Her nail laid in the middle of the field, still sheathed. "She needs her nail," he mumbled faintly.

"We'll deal with this, just go!"

Ogrim is quick to launch himself at another floating bug, his face twisted with rage, a claw poised to slash. The bug moves out of the way with a delicate, almost teasing grace, launching another ball of light which crashes into his back and sends him skidding across the ground in a heap of limbs. The main threat wields his blade in his hands, before turning forwards, right towards Dryya, swinging his sword up high before bringing it down in a wide arc.

"No!"

Quirrel darts forward, arms numb with not thinking. The world blurs for a moment and he finds Dryya's blade in his hand, the strange attacker in front of him, sword bearing down on him - on _both_ of them. His arms fly up, the nail held between both his hands, and a loud _clang_ reverberates through the lane. Quirrel's feet slide back a step, arms shaking, and he looks up to see confusion crossing over the bug's face.

"How did you...?" His grip on his own nail loosens slightly, but they remain stalemated.

"Why are you doing this!?" Quirrel pushes up slightly, his own confusion lacing his words. "We're on the same side!"

“The same...” The attacker’s face drifts from confusion into a scowl. “Don’t make me laugh. The King and his followers are nothing more than cowards! They refuse to see the cure that’s in front of them! The enlightenment that we could bring to all of them! And if they refuse to see the light, then they’re as good as dead!” He bears down on Quirrel’s uneasy grip on the blade, slowly pushing downwards, sparks flying and the steel grinding as the pressure increases. “Now, do me a favor, and get out of my way, before I have to kill a kid.”

His eyes spark with tears and he takes a breath, legs shaking and sliding back as he holds his position. "N-no! You don't have to do this! We can talk!"

"Quirrel." Dryya coughs behind him. "Duck."

"Wh-what!? But he-"

" _Duck_!"

In an instant, he breaks his position, rolling into a ball, and Hegemol's mace hits the bug square in the side. The two nails clink onto the ground as the Soul Warrior bounces down the cobblestone path. There was a snarl of rage, followed by the sight of Hegemol charging towards the crumpled bug, mace already spattered with blood, coming down for a swing, only to have another blast of light slam into his back and have him teetering before he falls. Ogrim’s red armor flashes through the air before slamming into one of the floating attackers, sending them both careening to the ground. Dryya finally moves to retrieve her blade, holding it in the air in a defensive stance, glancing back towards Quirrel. “ _Run_! Go! Now!”

Quirrel pops out of his shell, crumpling onto the ground and taking deep breaths. The sounds of clanging metal surround him alongside strange, eerie noises that must belong to the whitish-yellow magic flying around the street. _Before I have to kill a kid_. That bug was actually going to kill him! And he wasn't even infected. He had looked him in the eyes, and not a trace of infection lay in them. His breathing stutters out of his lungs and he wheezes.

“You will taste death today!” 

There was the sound of the another clashing blade, and the figures of Dryya and the main attacker flash by in whirling shadows. Dryya’s blade was like a blur through the air, a single flash of light that was dancing through the air, yet no matter how fast she spun or how harsh she swung, the clashing spark of blades always rang true.

No. _No_. He refused to run. He had tried that before. It didn't lead to anything good. He forces his breaths to even out. A nail still lays on the ground next to him. They must have brought extras, if the one bug was still fighting after having lost one of his own. His hand slowly takes the nail by the hilt. He looks up.

Arcs of yellowish white throw themselves at the Knights, each trying to take one or more bugs at a time, each bug darting out of range the moment before a hit could land on them. Dryya was the closest any of them were getting to striking them, but the Warrior was faster with the blade than his companions. Ogrim lacked the space needed to freely open up his attacks, and Hegemol, while able to soak quite a few hits, simply couldn't keep pace with his armor.

Quirrel's resolve cracks and his hands tremble.

“You will die in the name of the King!” Ogrim lifted a large boulder up above his head before swinging it in a massive arc, right towards one of the flying adversaries.

“You all will burn for your betrayal!” The bug seemingly vanishes from sight, only to reappear just above Ogrim’s head, where a blast of light is sent down, and an explosion momentarily shakes the ground. Ogrim’s figure, covered in soot and rock, is sent flying.

"Ogrim!" Quirrel stumbles to his feet, dashing toward the fallen Knight. The ground behind him crumbles as an attack aimed at Dryya flies wide.

Ogrim weakly lifts his head up from the rubble upon which he landed, an eye clenched shut in pain, his arms shaking as he tries to shake off the pain. “Urgh...” His eyes snap open as he sees Quirrel running towards him, an arm outstretched. “Quirrel, _don’t-_!” 

He sees a light fly into sight from his peripherals, and before he can even register the pain, he feels the wind whip past him, seconds before he crashes into the ground. 

Quirrel winces, ears ringing from the blast and back aching as if he had fallen from a great height. He slowly pushes himself to his hands and knees, vaguely recognizing the shape of a house next to him, maybe a basket full of... fruit? The nail he had picked up was nowhere to be seen.

He could vaguely see the figures of bugs, all...all running past him, some charging forwards with cleavers or clubs or sharp knives in their hands, and some running away, terror clear in their faces. He blinks sluggishly, vision slightly blurry, and when the ringing finally clears, he hears it. 

Screaming. 

Screaming, in the distance, towards the camp.

"Oh no." He stumbles to his feet, glancing at the more spectacular battle behind him, and then darts off toward the camp. If the Knights were here keeping those... were they Soul users? Monomon had mentioned something about a Soul Soother and bad people using Soul for bad things, but were these people the ones she had been talking about? He shudders. They were a lot more terrifying than she had let on. He only hoped the screams were from viewing the fight and not some other terror making its way through a camp of injured civilians.

Quirrel picked up his pace, glancing at the tents as he passed for anything he could use as a weapon. One of the tents were collapsing, the previous residents having rushed out too quickly. He grabs a thick stick that had snapped in the confusion and runs toward the sound of blades. The path looked too familiar to him.

He sees the flash of swords amongst the light of what seems to be a fire that had somehow started. Guards, 2 of them, gathered around a single target, a towering figure with regal, bloodied robes. They feinted, they jabbed, they swung, but somehow, the blows never connected. The figure’s eyes flashed white, and his voice was a dark rumble. “Such a waste...Throwing your lives away in the name of a false God...”

“Go for the left! Try to box him in!”

“Our swords aren’t connecting!”

“Stab him! Stab him now!”

“ _Watch out_ -!”

There was an agonizing scream as one of the guards, the smaller ones with only a sword to their name, suddenly found themselves held in the figure’s grasp, a hand buried deep in their chest, held up to the light of the flames as blood and viscera spilled from the crimson wound, dripping down the attacker’s shell. The figure stood there, his face cold, merciless, quick to pull his hand back out, clenching it into a fist as familiar waves of white light flooded over his being, and for a moment, his eyes flash white as well, and he lets out a deep sigh. He lets the gurgling, limo corpse drop, where it crumples to the ground, blood oozing out in a viscous puddle. 

The remaining guard seems to freeze in place, overcome with horror, and that too, sealed his fate. His screams were barely heard amongst the din, crimson staining the dirt beneath his feet. Quirrel slows to a stop, eyes wide at the scene, unable to turn his gaze from the horror unfolding in front of him. His arms grow heavy, ice lacing through his body, and the tremors that had eased with his running pick up again. A low gurgle comes from the alley next to him, and he stumbles back and manages to swing his makeshift club at its face.

The infected’s maw crunches inwards,  a mandible snapping off entirely, and it falls over, twitching madly, gurgling and gasping in weak, raspy whines of pain. It soon seems to stop moving all together. 

A shadow falls over him, and a voice is heard. “...A child?” It’s soft, confused, and almost horrified. A hand rests on his shoulder, and as it gently turns him around, he gazed into the face of the man who had murdered the guards, his other arm still soaked in blood. His face was turned into a soft, conflicted frown, only for recognition to bloom in those eyes. “... _The child of the Teacher_...”

 

•••••

Grimm hits the stone floor harder than he had intended to, but brushes the thought aside as soon as the newly sanctified room enters his line of sight. He stands still at the entrance, feeling his Heart beat painfully. A newly taken life, one of his own, to feed his flame. The justifications were already swirling around his mind, the largest among them a bitter _They signed up for this_ , but he knew they didn’t matter. Death was still death. Being eternalized as one of the Flame was a blessing to some, and a curse to others. His cult knew to only choose those who found it a blessing.

Death and not-death were concepts he and the Heart were close to, but he still couldn’t understand it.

Unwilling to dwell on the matter any longer, and noting the burning flame of the central torch, he strides into the room. Everyone was gathering the few remnants of the construction. The bug that had been adorned in thick stitched crimson rests against the far wall, and it takes Grimm a moment to pull his eyes away from them. Releasing a small sigh and skillfully ignoring the glances his kin sent him, he looks toward a particular torch and nods at seeing it unlit. A few bugs standing beside it shrug at him.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says as they move to explain. “That was planned. Gather your things and I’ll send you all back.”

All of the followers move to do so with swift precision, all except Talia, who stands there silently, staring at the now lifeless bug who still laid slumped against the wall. Her hands were shaking, and her antenna were flat against her skull, the light of her abdomen having grown dim within her flesh. She looks back towards Grimm, before slowly walking closer towards him, finally leaning against his leg, letting out a heavy, _heavy_ sigh. “...The voices are going nuts right now...But they’re strange. They’re not the same voices. They’re different....It’s weird...”

“I know.” He sighs again, but softer, and gently puts a hand on her head. Some of the tenseness from the short exchange with the Pale King eases away. “The ones who speak less often.... You may want to rest after they settle. I’m sure they’ll be distracted by my next task.”

“Right, I’ll take note of that. Anything else I should know about before you go messing with your magic and make me feel all woozy _or_ in pain _or_ hounded by the spirits?” She tilts her head up to stare at him in the eyes, one antenna lifting up to twitch a bit.

“Mm.” His eyes widen as he considers the question. There was some merit there, but.... “There shouldn’t be all too much to worry about. Nothing you should worry about. We’re just trying to fish the Fundament from wherever he’s hiding these days.” He mutters the last part quieter, so the others couldn’t hear his words.

“Ugh...” She winces, like she bit into a sour fruit. “Must you go poking him with a stick like that? He always...lingers near me when he gets brought up. It’s creepy, and weird, and I always get the feeling that he wants to take my flame away.” A hand drifts to her throat as she looks back down, and something in her expression turns almost haunted. “Sometimes...I get the feeling he’d rather me be dead than have any piece of what you have.”

“He’s a jealous, old man and ridiculously protective of what’s his.” Grimm looks aside for a moment. “If he wants to do anything to you, he’ll have to go through me first. I know that doesn’t sound like the best odds, but _my_ boundaries have very rarely been tested by any of the others, including him.”

She’s silent for a moment, but she nods in response, looking back up to give him a soft grin. “Thanks, Master. It’s...relieving to know.”

He grins back at her, genuine if not weary. “And have some sweets for me while you’re back home. We’ll both need it.”

Her antenna instantly perk up, and her lips stretch to reveal that grizzly grin of hers with those pitch-black fangs and that haunting crimson glow. She lets out a giggle. “Can do. Can do indeed. Indeedy-do-da-day.”

He grins wider and ruffles her antennae. “Just don’t eat us out of stock. Even our Child gets scolded for that.”

“Ah, no fair!” She huffs, but her grin makes it clear it’s all in jest. She flicks a wing against his cloak, and one of the embers makes a tiny flame that is quickly put out. “You never scold the Child. It’s always Mistress Divine or Master Brumm!”

“Wha-?” He holds a hand to his chest, feigning reproach. “I do. You merely... don’t see me do it.”

“You wouldn’t scold the Child even if it set fire to all of the wheat supply. Which it _did_ , at least 3 years ago!” She folds her arms, walking back towards the group of followers who were all congregating in the circle.

Divine reaches out to rest on Grimm’s shoulder. “Master, do you want me to go with you? Or should I go back?”

“Hm?” He turns toward her. “Oh, I’d rather you be taking care of business in the Troupe. I’ll only need Brumm with me this time around.”

Her eye narrows slightly, and she looks unsure for a moment. “...Can you guarantee that you’ll be safe?”

Grimm frowns at her, but nods. “Brumm will be with me, and I’m certain I’d be able to hold anyone off if anyone tried anything.”

One of her antenna flattens, and the talon on his shoulder tightens. “But...Brumm told me. About the...” She leans in close to whisper. “...the moth.”

His jaw flexes and he looks away for a moment. “It’s just one. We’ve dealt with worse. _I’ve_ dealt with worse on my own, under worse conditions than magically induced sleep. I’ll be fine. We both will.”

She stares for a long, long moment. “...If anything happens, Wyrm or no, I will hunt down that moth and eat it. I will swear to you on that.” She gives him a pat on the shoulder before moving to join the crowd.

He watches her for a moment, slightly troubled by her words, but merely nods. “Right.” He straightens and walks toward the forming group. “Everyone ready?”

“Yup.”

“Sure am.”

“I’m ready!”

“Try not to singe the fur, Master! I spent a week trying to grow it back!”

“Shut up, Kevin.”

“You shut up! You’re not the one who got all their fur burnt off because Miss Flame Demon over there decided to sneeze!”

Talia makes a groan of irritation and twists her head around to face the masked bug in question. “I told you 3 times, Kevin! It was an accident! 3 times!”

Grimm listens to their arguments with a small smile on his face, shaking his head. “Alright, everyone. Deep breaths, and...” He watches for everyone to do as instructed and snaps his fingers. The group vanishes from sight.

After that, there is only silence. Silence and the crackling of the pyre that now roared before them. Brumm is the first to move, walking forward to slowly take Grimm’s hand, giving it a squeeze. “...Are you alright, Master?”

Grimm’s smile fades and his hand squeezes Brumm’s in return. He stays silent for a moment, then shakes his head. “The King saw.”

“..He saw? What do you mean?”

“I felt eyes on us and when I turned...” His hand squeezes again. “I _specifically_ told both of them we were leaving for privacy’s sake and he used his powers to _watch_ right as-” He cuts himself off and huffs, pulling his hand away to rub at his forehead. “This is difficult enough as is. I’ve been going out of my way for him and his kingdom and the one time I ask him to trust me he - he not only disrespects _me_ but one of the most sacred Rituals of our clan. For one to pass while eyes are on them...”

Brumm is silent for the most part, his hands having retreated to his sides, and he turns his head to look back toward the hole. “Mrm....The King...or, rather, the Wyrm, I should say...From the days that I had known him, he was quite inquisitive. Ambitious. Sought everything he could see and felt damn near offended if you tried to tell him that he was forbidden to touch a book  or a scroll or anything that held something he might not want to see. I do not know how much time has changed him...But I have a feeling this was not done out of disrespect.”

“Either way, he can’t apologize to the one who deserves the apology.” Grimm lowers his hands and looks to the corpse behind them, going quiet for a moment. He tucks his arms under his cloak.  “He didn’t _look_ apologetic either. The look on his face...”

“...Did you tell him what would happen?”

“Of course not!” He turns to face him. “He wouldn’t have understood. No one ever does. And I’ve already told him too much about the Ritual, and us. I can tell he’s smart, and I don’t want him getting any ideas.”

That gets Brumm to blink, and for a moment, he looks downright baffled. But then, slowly, he lets out a sigh, nodding. “Well....What now, Master? He may know, but how much do you really think he’ll try to pull something?”

Grimm exhales, rubbing his face. “He... still has no clue of the last meaning of the torches, so I don’t think he’ll be able to figure it out. I just hope he doesn’t start obsessing over the need for external fuel...”

Brumm stares for a moment before turning back towards the hole. “...Brooding about possibilities that may not happen is not exactly wise, Master...”

He frowns, considering arguing his point, but instead takes a breath and lets the issue slide. “Yes, of course... Apologies. Let’s... get out of here.”

Brumm nods, before moving to scale back up towards the surface, climbing the rocky walls with an ease that only came from eons of life within the Heart’s preserving flames. Grimm watches him climb for a moment, then teleports to the top and offers a hand to him with a small smirk. “Always doing the hard work, aren’t you?”

Brumm, who is still at least several inches from the top, pauses upon seeing him standing there, and he huffs before reaching out to take his hand. “Mrm. Of course, no one else will. Especially not you and your scrawny muscles.”

“Oh, I’m hurt.” He shakes his head, pulling him up the rest of the way before turning to the King and Queen. His grin becomes a little more fake, but he’s sure only Brumm could tell. “We should hurry to our next destination, shouldn’t we?”

The Queen’s eyes were glimmering with what looked to be a touch of concern (something that seemed to be a common look for her), but all she does is merely nod. The King’s eyes were facing the floor, but as Grimm turns to face them, he looks up into his eyes, his own gaze no longer that of a chilling fury, but rather a melancholic numbness. There was a beat of silence before the King nods. “Indeed, we should be off. The Seer is no doubt waiting for us.”

“Of course. I can teleport us back into the Kingdom, but since I don’t know where she is, I can’t teleport us directly to her.” He folds his arms together under his cloak. “We’ll be walking some of the way.”

“That is of no issue to me.“

“Yes, a walk could do us some good. You could see more of the Kingdom. I’d be happy to show you what we can.” The Queen grows a small smile upon her face.

"That sounds wonderful. I keep hearing about the architecture." He smiles pleasantly at her. "Now, where have I been that's close enough to this Seer for us to get started?"

The King tilts his head for a moment, before a small smile grows over his face, breaking the numbness that had fixated itself in his eyes. “I believe the Crossroads is our closest route. There’s a newer method of travel there that I think you’ll find to be quite fascinating.”

"Oh really?" Grimm raises a brow, amused by the idea. "How new?"

“New enough that I’m positive no other kingdom has even come close to perfecting it yet.”

"Oh, I've been to plenty of places. Are you _sure_ you're willing to bet on such a thing?" The awkwardness leaves Grimm's face in exchange for mischief.

The smile on the King’s face becomes downright cocky. “Of course I am. You take me for a fool to bet on something without the guarantee that I would win?”

"I definitely consider you bold for claiming to have something I've not yet seen elsewhere." He chuckles a bit, the recent slight not entirely out of mind, but the game enough to at least temporarily put his worries at ease. "The Crossroads, you said?"

“Correct.” He nods, his smirk fading into a relatively lax smile.

"Alright then." He snaps his fingers and their surroundings change to that eerie hallway near the elevator.

••••

Lurien jolts upright as the sound of an explosion and accompanying screams fill the air. The ground shakes under him. An explosion in camp? Could it have been one of the medical stations, some of the chemicals leaking into each other? He takes a breath and concentrates, peering into the med bays he had seen. Nothing, nothing, nothing...

"That's not good." The image of a small doctor laying unconscious next to beds that had previously held infected bugs seared into his mind before he turned his sight elsewhere. An explosion. Surely the others would find.... He frowns, confused and worried. "Soul Soother?"

He watches. Watches as the dirty, disheveled bug slowly undoes the straps of the infected, watches as they come to life, roused from their catatonic state, watches as Soul Soother steps out of the tent to plunge his hand into the chest of a soldier standing guard, as the white tendrils of Soul flood through his skin and into his being. Lurien feels his blood run cold, his breath hitch in his chest. The infected were already beginning to attack. People were already falling.

He rips himself back into the present and pushes himself out of his bed. He couldn't waste another moment doing nothing, not while others were getting hurt, and definitely not while someone as dangerous as the Soul Soother was behind it. He scans the room once for anything of use, then darts toward the tent flap.

It was just then that he sees the shadow pass over his tent, and he forcefully skids himself to a stop, trying to clench his teeth to avoid hissing at the feeling of his tender shell, still burnt and stretching from the sudden movement. He feels himself slowly take a step back, another, and another, and he watches as the tent slowly parts to reveal a husk, standing there, it’s fangs open and chittering, dripping with globs of infectious puss while it’s eyes are bloodshot, glazed over, hazy. It stands there, motionless, swaying back and forth to a tune that cannot be seen, before it’s eyes curl up in a smile. 

“ **Hello, Lurien. It’s been a long time. Nice to see that you haven’t changed over the years, despite how much you’ve tried. No need to bother with the mask. Go ahead and take it off, let me see that face of yours. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen any of my gorgeous handiwork.** ”

Lurien cringes, unable to hide how his shoulders tense, and takes a deep breath to still his shaking hands. "No." He clenches his fists, letting his knuckles spark with clear white energy. "No, I don't think I'll do that."

“ **No? How upsetting. I guess it’s my fault for assuming that you’d still be the meek little servant that you used to be. A pity what the Wyrm has done to you, covering up your features like that; probably as another way to mock me from beyond the grave**.” 

The little husk, a beetle by the looks of it, walks farther into the tent, closing the flaps behind it, arms folded as if it was nothing more than a polite chitchat. “ **Tell me, dear, have you missed me at all? Truly? Surely you must’ve missed something. I know I do. I miss the way you used to follow the Wyrm around and obey his every beck and call. It was so adorable to watch. My lovesick little firefly.** ”

Lurien feels his face wrinkle in disgust under his mask. He takes another step back, the sparks on his knuckles progressing into watery flames of white. "Don't - don't make me kill that bug. I _will_."

The bug stares for a moment, and then it lets out a gentle, if not heavily amused laugh. “ **Hahahaha....Oh, my sweet Lurien....If you really wanted to kill it, you would have the moment it stepped through the door. You wouldn’t even be threatening me with destroying it. You just would kill it, then and there, let it’s insides spill all over the ground, step over it’s corpse while you march outside to be the hero you never could be.** ” 

There was a pause, a deafening silence. 

It’s smile grows twisted. “ **Tell me, my lovely firefly...Are you afraid I’ll come for you again? Are you afraid I’ll seek you out and make you mine once more? Or are you afraid for the sake of your Wyrm, your knight in shining armor, your savior with gleaming shell and soul of holy light? You’d do anything for him, wouldn’t you? You’re positively** **_obsessed_ ** **with him. Ruined by him.** ”

His fists tighten more, visibly trembling, and forces himself not to consider her first questions. "'Ruined?' You think he _ruined_ me? He _saved_ me from you. _You_ ruined me, not him!"

She shakes her head, still smiling, as if she’s chiding a small kid who simply doesn’t know better. “ **Oh, you poor fool....You don’t see it, do you? The Wyrm has ruined you. He’s ruined you the moment you gave up everything for him. Your face, your body, your mind, you threw away everything you could in order to prove your devotion to him, clinging to him out of a desperate need to be protected, be saved, be loved. You even gave away the sight he blessed you with, gave it to him so he could use it for his own ends, let yourself become a tool**.”

She steps closer, smile never once dropping. 

“ **You haven’t changed, no matter what mask you wear, no matter what title you give yourself, no matter how much you try to drown out the truth with the sight of the infinite. You haven’t changed and you never will, and that is the truth. A truth that festers beneath the mask, a truth that stares back at you every time you look in the mirror and see the beautiful scars that still cover your face. You will always be shackled, always be chained to the Wyrm, doomed to live by his every word without question, without complaint, without thought, all for the sake of a love that will never be yours because you can’t accept that it** **_could_ ** **be yours.** ”

“ **You, Lurien, will** **_always_ ** **be a slave**.”

He shakes worse with every word, every question, every statement, until he's almost certain his legs would give out from under him at any moment. Was... was she right? No. No, this was what she always did. This was how she did _everything_ that entire damnable time. Even in death she couldn't deal with the fact that he.... He takes a breath and looks the husk in the eyes.

"You're wrong. Everything I do, I _choose_ to do. Back then, I _had to_ because you _made me_ , but I'm free now, and everything I do, everything I feel is purely me!" His arms flare white. "You can't cope with other people's autonomy. You want everyone to be your puppet so you can have your way every time, but that _isn't_ how life is supposed to be. And _he_ figured that out without anyone even telling him. And you couldn't deal with that, and that's why you're still here today. If anyone's obsessed and can't see the truth, it's _you_ , Radiance. Not me."

She stares again for a moment, before she laughs, softly, a chilling sound. “ **Hahaha....Ohhh...I’ve missed that spirit of yours. You always used to say so many funny things. It was so fun to watch you try and fight against me, fight against the truth I tried to show you. But you never listened. You never listened, and eventually....Eventually it just stopped being funny.** ” 

She gives him a sickly sweet smile. “ **It warms my heart to see that my precious firefly still carries a blaze in his heart, even after all these years. It’s so much more funny now, especially since this will be the last time I ever get to see it. I will cherish it for as long as I can, even after I rip the life from your fragile,** **_fragile_ ** **body.** ”

She glances slightly toward the tent when more screams erupt from the outside, her voice becoming both gentle and dripping with malice. “ **But don’t fret, my little firefly. I’m not so cruel as to permanently rip away your love from your arms. No, when the Wyrm dies, screaming and squirming and** **_suffering_ ** **, just as he should be, you will be there right beside him; you’ll have the pleasure of watching the light drain from his eyes.** ”

She looks back towards him, her voice still soft, still sweet, still awful to listen to. “ **If you behave, before I kill you, I might even let you hold him, give you one last chance to kiss him and claim what you’ve been so desperately trying to deny yourself for so long. Then, I will kill you, just as slowly, just as painfully, leaving your corpses to rot and wither amongst my new, glorious rule. It will be a beautiful sight, I assure you. A beautiful sight for a beautiful death, between a dragon and his slave**.”

Lurien feels his skin crawl, feels his stomach clench as if it were ready to hurl what little contents were left in it, and his pulse hammers in his skull. He could see it. The two of them, trapped in _that_ place, her special little _box_ , destined to be her little torture toys for all of eternity. She would do it. If she could do it today, she would do it. She'd probably even consecrate the grounds their blood spilt on for some holy worship site of her own.

His claws dug through his shell and in an instant flames engulfed her. " _Die_."

The husk’s body quickly is consumed by the flames, eyes and shell and orange goo already starting to burn, to burn away, to melt. Her voice is heard all the while, laughing harder and harder as if she was waiting for him to kill her puppet and thought nothing of it aside from a cheap punchline to a sick joke. She never spoke, just kept laughing, over and over, until finally all that remained of that husk was a charred corpse.

His entire body shakes, watching as the flames devour her body, unable to stop her voice from ringing in his mind. He doesn't dare touch his mask. A shaky breath draws through him. Another. Another. The fire blazed before him, burning even the ashes that remained. His own blood dripped down his knuckles, spattering against the ground. He takes another breath and forces himself to relax.

"Soul Soother, you fucking bastard..." He grinds his jaw together, letting the anger bubble within him as his sight began to search the campsite for his exact location.

He lets his senses slowly drift out, outwards beyond the tent. Burning, a fire caused by the Soul magic catching alight on kindle. Bodies, some of the infected, some of them having been too injured to run away from the threat of the husks. Blood, staining the arm of the wretched traitor, standing in front of....

In front of....

Oh no.

••••

“To think that the child of the Teacher is all the way out here...In the middle of the carnage no less...” The Soul Master’s head turns slightly to glance at the corpses behind him, eyes narrowing slightly. “She must be more irresponsible than I imagined if she dared to bring a child here.”

Quirrel tenses as he sees his face, sees the blood caking his arm, and his hands tighten around his stick at the vocal recognition. He shakes the hand off his shoulder and jabs the stick into his side - right into a patch of newly done bandages. "Leave me _alone_!"

“ _GYAAAAAH_!” Blood blooms across the bandages like a splash of paint, and within instants, the figure’s eyes light up in both pain, surprise, and bright, bright light, and Quirrel’s vision is sent tumbling as his body is knocked back, rolling across the ground amongst the burning flames of the nearby tents. 

“Fuck! _Fuck_!” Soul Master goes down on one knee, his eyes clenched shut and his teeth gritted in rage, an arm clenched right around the stick that is now buried into his wound, the pain making his vision blur, his ears ring, and he has to hold back the urge to vomit as that sickly, awful heat causes a sheen of sweat to break out over his brow. His hand clenches in the dirt, taking a deep breath before finally moving to yank out the stick. “RRRRGH!” He tosses it away, and when his eyes land on Quirrel, his shell pulses with white light. “Impudent little....Is this how you treat your savior?! I come to your rescue, only to be betrayed, stabbed in the side because you can’t see past the lies they told you?! Are all the followers of that damned King doomed to be blind towards the folly of his words?!” 

He brings himself to stand, stalking towards Quirrel, anger brewing deep in his eyes, a deep breath making his nostrils flare. “...No...No, I refuse...I will not let one so young fall prey to their lies...I cannot let a child meet so harrowing a fate...”

Quirrel slowly pushes himself upright, cringing as he feels bruises take shape along his arms. He catches sight of the Soul Master creeping toward him, bleeding freely through his bandages, and scrambles back a few inches. Heat touches his shell and he pulls his hand back, noticing the fire surrounding his only means of escape. He shakes, feeling tears well up in his eyes.

The Soul Master catches sight of those tears, and his anger, blinding and dark, once more casts an expression of storming conflict, the rage in his eyes slowly deflating to something more hidden. He stops in front of Quirrel, no less than a foot away, glances at the fire, the bodies, the blood on his arm, and lets out a sigh, a deep one. When he turns back to Quirrel, his gaze is more begrudging. “Please, child...Please don’t see me as the monster. I’m only trying to do what’s best for you. For all of us. For _Hallownest_.”

He slowly walks closer, kneeling down in front of the small, trembling pillbug, and extends a hand towards him. “Please...Let me show you the truth. You don’t need to be blind. You don’t need to be ignorant. _Please_.”

"You should really ask permission from his parents first." The words come from behind the burning tent, just loud enough to be heard over the flames, and there's a single beat of silence before a massive beam tears through the remaining fabric and slams into the Soul Master's chest and face. The ray hovers a solid inch above Quirrel's head, and he feels more than hears the steady, static-y roar that emanates from it. The fires that had surrounded him instantly snuff out at the sudden competition of air and pressure. As the beam dissipates into flakes of pure white, the Soul Master flops and tumbles across the barren land on the opposite side of the main street that was, for the most part, devoid of buildings and tents. An infected bug that had been wandering toward them disintegrates into dust that joins the little particles of white.

Lurien the Watcher walks through the remnants of the tent and stops beside Quirrel's side. "Are you alright?"

Quirrel, his face still stricken with tears, slowly turns upwards to gaze into that blank mask, that mask that seemed to carry so much weight behind it, and before he can even register it, he can already feel himself starting to lose it, tears pouring down his face harder and harder. “I-I... _I_..”

There was a scream of utter rage from across the street, and from the rubble and smoke left behind by the blast, the Soul Master bursts free, one side of his face covered in soot, in ashes, one eye clenched shut, rising into the air, his regal robes fluttering like a tattered cape behind him in the wind. He points a finger towards Lurien, his voice shaking with an unholy fury. “ _You_....You! The foulest of the foul! The Zealot, the Priest! You who has forsaken your life entirely to serve your false God! You who has abandoned your morals for the sake of power! I know of your sins, and I will take great pleasure in striking you down once and for all!”

"I bear no sins, and if I did, I'd bear them publicly." He watches the Soul Master for a moment, then turns away and crouches beside Quirrel, brushing his tears away. "Shh, shh. Don't worry, little one. You have nothing more to fear." Quirrel sniffles, and he pulls him close in his arms.

At first, Soul Master snarls in rage, balling up his fist to let the light form in his claws, but at the sight of Quirrel being tugged close, the light slowly starts to dim ever so slightly. He doesn’t move. “Tch...Quit turning your back on me, traitor! Face me and face your _death_!”

"I'll get you out of here." Lurien carefully stands, holding Quirrel as he wraps his arms around his neck and starts sobbing. "Keep your eyes closed, alright?"

Quirrel manages to nod between sobs and tremors.

Lurien looks up at the Soul Master. "You have no place here. You know you cannot defeat me. Leave, or I will be forced to strike you down."

The Soul Master stares for a long, long moment, before his face deepens into fury. “You...You sick bastard...I know your game, don’t pretend I’m not seeing through you...” His claws clench even harder, and the aura of light that was flaring from his shell is maddening. “Using that child as a _shield_....Despicable...”

"Do you want me to put him down and let the infected bugs _you_ unleashed get to him?" Lurien pauses as Quirrel's hand tighten on his cloak. "Sadly enough, you've put us into a position where _my arms_ are the safest place in this kingdom for this child. Even if you _tried_ , I'd be able to keep him safe. Don't act like you don't know that."

The Soul Master is silent, though the aura of light that’s enveloped his skin flares even harder, and for a moment, he looks ready to explode. But then, slowly, the light fades, and he turns away. “...Mark my words, zealot. This isn’t over. This is just beginning.” 

He raises his hand to let loose a flare of light, and when it clears, he is gone. Several bright streaks of light flare overhead in the distance, before they too disappear, and all that’s left is the weak groaning of the husks that are still alive in the barren remains of the camp’s center. Lurien lets out a breath, and coughs lightly after it. He shifts Quirrel a little and starts walking toward the main road. "He's gone, and he took his people with him. I'll bring you to Monomon, alright?"

Quirrel nods weakly, but says nothing.

•••••

"Huh. I don't see much." Grimm walks slightly ahead, eager to see this contraption the King has put so much faith in. "Rather impressive room, though. You like wide, open areas in architecture, don't you?"

“The entire kingdom is underground, Grimm. Wide open spaces are a sort of necessity.” The Queen giggles slightly to herself as she follows the group into the room, her roots wiggling a bit as she fights to contain her amusement at what was to come. 

Brumm tilts his head back slightly to look towards the ceiling of such a wide, open tunnel, the entirety of the chamber looking to be much, much bigger than that of a simple Stag Beetle, with the walls of the chamber itself looking to be as smooth as marble, perfectly hollowed out to provide ample room. He hums to himself, unable to resist a feeling of curiosity bubbling in his chest. “Hmmm...”

The King himself walks over to a nearby poll station, one that contained no coin slot, no gears, nothing that hinted at anything that would function in a way Grimm would expect, the King’s claws resting on top of the contraption with a small hint of pride in his voice. “This new mode of travel, while admittedly very new, has been one of my more ambitious projects. A tunnel system even more large than the ones of the Stags, able to carry multiple citizens to multiple areas throughout the kingdom. It’s still in it’s early stages of practical use, however, since the tunnels only reach certain distances, while the Stags can reach almost any place in the entire kingdom, so, for now, only the most noble of my people may have access to it’s key, an object which I have to personally give them ownership of, to prevent any decoys or counterfeits. See for yourself, Grimm.” He digs into his robes for a moment before he pulls out, not a key for a door, but rather an odd slim piece of metal that seemed to have odd grooves carved into it’s side, looking just enough like the grooves of a key to be similar, but just not enough. He holds it out for Grimm to inspect.

Grimm takes it, humming lightly and turning it this way and that, looking for anything particularly interesting. "Rather sleek for most things I've seen, I must admit. How does it work? And how do you keep others from simply making another?"

“You simply insert the key into the slot, and the grooves will push the lock mechanisms into place, long enough for the runes within the grooves to be accurately traced and identified. Only I know the secrets to such runes, therefore, only I can make those keys.” He gestures towards the slot. “Go on, stick the key in.”

The Lady starts to giggle to herself, close to chortling. Grimm glances between them, a small, almost uncertain grin on his own face despite the curiosity bubbling under his carapace. He turns to the machine and orients the key as he had seen the King hold it. He slides it into the mechanism. Within an instant, a small light above the key slot flickers to life, a soft yellow glow accompanied by the soft chime of a bell. Just mere seconds after that, the ground begins to tremble, to rumble, like that of a miniature earthquake, large wires strapped to the ceiling beginning to move with the tell-tale grinding of cigs and gears as it is yanked through a complex pulley system, large and unyielding amongst the rocky tunnel. The supposed end to the tunnel, a large stone wall that bore the King’s symbol slowly splits in half, a seamless cut in which both halves of the wall retract, just in time to reveal a massive metal structure, intricately carved and brimming with wealth, carried by the wires and gears across the top of it’s roof, steadily chugging along the tunnel, not once touching the ground, walls, or ceiling. It slows to a stop in front of the platform the group was all standing on, and with a final click, a large door slides open, revealing soft, welcoming light, cushioned seating, and the pleasant melody of a song, played over what looked to be some sort of speaker. 

The King’s grin is nothing short of proud, smug, while the Queen was beaming from ear to ear. Brumm stares in obvious awe, no words to be said.

Grimm first stares at the light with amusement, then traces the wires - they must have been massive if they looked that big so far away - and gapes as the wall peels away. And then the structure, the vehicle, without wheels and with sliding doors. It was massive, but every bit as elegant as the rest of the Kingdom. Grimm wordlessly walks away from the call box and joins Brumm in admiring the contraption up close. There was even music to it! Tinny, perhaps, but he could tell what it _should_ sound like, and it was pleasant all the same. He had heard of a few methods of storing sound with similar results, but they were very few and far between.

"...Wow..."

“What do you think, Grimm? Have you seen anything like this in other kingdoms?” The King’s smugness was practically palpable, raising a brow as his grin only grew.

"Definitely not!" In an instant, Grimm took a few extra steps forward, reaching out to put a hand on the side of the machine. "So many working parts.... I've seen complicated pieces, but this is... Transportation like this..."

"Very impressive," Brumm agrees. "Like an elevator, but on its side."

"And it's sturdy? The wires won't snap?" He looks back at the King for a moment.

“I have menderbugs making safety checks on all of the mechanisms every 5 months. The chances of any of the wires snapping is slim to none.” He gestures towards the door. “Please, do go inside. Make yourselves comfortable.”

"Ooh, yes. How many people can fit in this thing...?" Grimm darts inside, closely followed by Brumm, and eagerly begins scouting around the place. "Very homey. Interesting music, too. Ooh, that looks like an important button-"

"Do not push the button, Master."

"I wasn't going to. Merely admiring it." He gives it another cursory glance, then stretches up to look at one of the soundboxes blaring music. "How interesting..."

“If I recall, that music was one of the instrumental pieces used by Marissa The Singer’s most infamous opera performance. Quite popular amongst the elite classes. I figured it would be nice for them to listen to such lovely songs while traveling through the tunnels.” The King makes his way inside the tram, as does the Lady, though she does have to duck and tuck in a few of her roots. 

Brumm turns his head from where he had been standing to glance at the King, settling down in one of the seats. “Oh, Marissa! How lovely to hear that she’s made a name for herself amongst your kingdom! Tell me, is she doing well?”

The King pauses for a moment, recalling some of the chaos that took place within the City just a few days ago, before snapping out of his memories. “She’s been doing quite fine. Made a living from her lovely voice. Adored by all who hear her.”

"Oh, that's wonderful." Grimm follows Brumm's example and sits beside him. "I was thinking the music was familiar, but I couldn't quite place it, but it makes sense it would be Marissa's work. It's very soothing, I must say."

“Indeed. You should hear her performances. Even I can’t resist hearing that singing sometimes. Brings back old memories, doesn’t it, my dear?” He glances towards the Queen, who was also seated. 

She smiles, nodding softly. “I remember when she used to be up there on the stage, singing and dancing. She was the best performer Enkay ever had.”

"I can only imagine. Enkay only had the best of the best, isn't that right?" Grimm nudges Brumm with his elbow.

He nods emphatically. "Able to see talent through ten layers of denial, they did. Could see it in everyone."

The King is silent for a moment before he takes a breath and turns to the front of the tram, walking towards it to place his hand on a bright light, a button. “Well, I believe it’s time to get going.” He pauses to smirk at Grimm. “I do hope you enjoy the ride.” He presses the button, and the door to the tram slides shut, the structure visibly shivering as the wires and cogs start back once more before starting to move forward.

••••

"Trust me, I'd be carrying you if I had the strength to do so." Podzol holds a mass of Monomon's tentacles, making short, awkward dashes to match the just as awkward movements Monomon manages on her left side. "I bet you that insane bat of a god did this to spite me. Can't believe he put you in the middle of it as well."

“Middle of what, my student? It’s not exactly _my_ fault that I have no bones in these limbs! Or bones anywhere!” She chuckles a bit at that. “Do be careful, though. Just because I don’t have bones doesn’t mean I don’t feel pain. Try not to step on anything.” Her frame was bobbing and weaving and flopping along, like a sentient pile of gelatin, bits of rock and ash and dust clinging to her skin, caking her tendrils.

"Of course, Teacher." He takes a small half step before dashing again to avoid a tendril that slid toward his feet. "I meant whatever godly feud I accidentally incurred. I understand having a vendetta against _me,_ but pulling other people who have nothing to do with it is another matter." Podzol squints slightly at the mass of tents and buildings they were approaching. "Teacher, is that smoke supposed to be there?"

“Who exactly do you mean by other....What smoke?” Her head takes a moment to crane itself high, and her mask warps into a look of terror. “...Oh my Gods....” Her limbs quiver, and with a sudden leap, her limbs start to slap and claw and crawl in a frantic frenzy, kicking up dust and dirt, her entire body thrashing and writhing like a rabid animal. “QUIRREL!”

Podzol sputters, leaping and ducking out of the way of suddenly moving tendrils. "Teacher! Slow yourself. You'll trip or worse!" He keeps pace with her, worriedly eyeing her balance. "If something was happening, we'd be hearing about it by now, wouldn't we?"

“We’re in the middle of the cliffs, Podzol! There’s no one to tell us what happened! I am not going to sit idly by as my _child_ is in possible danger!” She twists her head around to practically shove it into Podzol’s face, her voice shaking with a venomous fury. “NOW PICK UP THE SLACK OR ELSE I SWEAR I WILL TOSS YOU IN THE NEAREST ACID POOL I FIND!”

He ducks back from her, hands held up. "I merely meant that we aren't hearing _screams,_ Teacher. Even at this distance, we'd hear _something,_ and seeing as we can't... They must have things under control, right?"

“We don’t know! We don’t know and my boy is in that camp and I am not going to stop until I know he’s safe!” She continues to thrash against the dirt and ash of the Cliff’s grounds, just barely scraping herself along, inch by inch, more and more dust being kicked up, more and more caking her slimy, sticky flesh, her cloth, her mask.

"Okay, but if that's the case, then I should probably tell you we were covering more ground walking jointly." He ducks under a tendril. "Let's just calm down for a moment and think about this logically."

There was a few more moments of squirming before Monomon starts to audibly shake, her voice contorting in a series of violent coughs and haggard breathing before she finally goes limp, shaking and trembling. Her mask was contorted in such a manner that Podzol was sure that, were her kind to be physically capable of it, she would be crying.

Podzol has never dealt well with crying, or any kind of intense emotion that didn't have violent side. He never knows what to do, and for as well versed as he is in chemical compositions, words have always been his downfall, especially in moments like this. He deals in problems and solutions, and people simply didn't _have_ solutions.

Unless it was a medical one. Those he could easily solve. Which is probably why he makes the decision to pick up as much of Teacher Monomon as possible and continue the trek toward the camp. He may or may not have been selling himself short on his strength. Although, to be fair, his limbs popping and snapping under too much strain were genuine concerns he'd had for the majority of his life.

Slowly, Monomon’s tendrils, that were dragging limply behind the mantis as he strained to move the great Teacher forward, finally came back to life, and began to ease off the weight, began to crawl in a much more careful, much more precise manner. They steadily moved forward, the both of them, the smell of smoke, slowly growing stronger and stronger.

"You need your tank first," Podzol says after a moment. "You'll be of no use to Quirrel if you keel over before getting to him."

“...Just find water or something...I’ll be fine. I just...need to find him. I need to see that he’s safe. If he...I don’t...” She trembles, but shakes her head to dispel the thought. “I can keep going...A little dust isn’t gonna kill me...”

"On the contrary, it can." He sighs. "I can tell you want to see him immediately, but you need to soak first. Or while we look for him."

“Doesn’t matter. The tank is next to Lurien’s tent. That’s in the middle of the campsite. By the time we get to that point, I either find him, or I don’t.” She shakes her head, her voice growing rough. “He’s my son, Podzol. My child. I don’t care if I die, as long as I know he’s still alive. I’d give my life to make sure his still goes on. That is the pure truth.”

"It's nonsensical." He catches himself immediately and shakes his head. "Never mind. I don't understand family units like you all do. Nature will kill you or it won't. It doesn't make sense to avoid it."

Something in her gaze contorts, but not in rage, and more like that of disgusted scorn. “He’s a _child_ , Podzol. A boy! A baby boy with no parents to call his own! They left him on my doorstep with no rhyme or reason, and they left me to raise him, because by Gods, I was not about to let that boy grow up without a mother!” She slams a tendril on the ground as if stamping a foot. “And now, he’s in the middle of that inferno, and here you are yammering about my feelings towards my son! So I suggest you shut your mouth and help me get there before I kick you out of my Archives forever!”

"I didn't mean to imply..." He looks aside, but looks right back to see which way his feet are supposed to land. "Never mind. We're almost there, anyways. I think I can see someone."

“You do?” She cranes her head as high as she can, and indeed, she sees a figure moving across the horizon in front of them both. She catches her breath, and she lifts a tendril to wave it in the air. “Hello?! Who’s there?!”

The lone figure continues to move toward them at a steady pace, no sense of hesitancy about them, and shortly raises a hand in return. They were tall, if somewhat lumpy toward the top, but the distance and ashy fog coming from the camp kept their identity unclear. Podzol grumbles something under his breath and urges Monomon to keep moving, at the very least to close some distance. A few short, but seemingly long, seconds later brings the figure's notable, one eyed mask into a view, and the lump near its top becomes identifiable as a blue-shelled child.

Monomon feels her entire body freeze, a blood-stopping chill so strong that, for a moment, she doesn’t even think to move. After only a split second, that illusion of paralysis is broken, and it takes all her concentration to lift herself back up onto her tendrils, clawing and scraping and _pushing_ at the ground beneath her, her voice turning into a shriek that echoes through the air. “LURIEN! QUIRREL!”

Podzol is buffeted for a moment but quickly moves to help her along in any way he can. Quirrel perks up from Lurien's shoulder, looking toward her with wet eyes. He struggles with Lurien at the sight of Monomon, who quickly sets him down, and runs to his mother, tears running anew. He calls out her name, broken by sobs, and crashes into her with open arms.

The moment Quirrel comes within arm’s distance, Monomon reaches out with all the tendrils she can muster, scooping him up and pressing him as close as she possibly can, hugging him closely, tightly, shaking so hard that her entire body was trembling. Her mask nuzzles the top of his head, she squeezes him close, her voice thick with relief and fear and utter _jubilation_. “Ohh...Quirrel, Quirrel...My boy...My sweet, precious boy..”

He sniffles, small hiccups coming from him as he tries to collect himself. "I-I... _snf.._ I'm s-sor-" He sags against her, entire body shaking with sobs.

Lurien frowns behind his mask, watching the child. "The Soul Soother attacked the camp and... He got close to Quirrel, but I stopped him before he could do anything."

Monomon’s face turns dark for a moment, full of growing confusion, growing rage, but pulls Quirrel close, stroking his back slowly, nuzzling his forehead, trying to calm him as best he can. “Shhh...Shh...It’s ok...It’s ok...I’m here. I’m here. I won’t let that man hurt you...” 

Podzol, who was now silently watching, turns to face the Watcher, eyes narrowing. “The Soul Soother? I’ve been hearing whispers of him all over the place as of late. Takes on a new name now. Soul Master, he calls himself. What exactly was he doing?”

"He let loose the infected bugs you were holding onto, I believe." Lurien levels his gaze with Podzol, and despite not _seeing_ any eyes beneath the mask, a cold shiver snakes its way down the mantis' back. "They attacked the camp, while a few of his more trained accomplices kept the Knights busy. I'm not sure what his intentions were, or why he was here, or what exactly he was doing, but it wasn't anything good."

Podzol’s claws clench, and he merely narrows his eyes back, refusing to show of the chill that had taken hold of him. “Hmm...” Something in his gaze seems to click, and his expression turns more incredulous. “Wait...The infected I had at my disposal were put to sleep. I had a serum that was designed to put them in a coma! Even if he did untie their bonds, they wouldn’t have done anything, not unless he found some way to wake them up, which I seriously doubt!”

"The Soul Soother... Soul Master..." Lurien hesitates, then shakes his head, breaking his gaze as he considers this information. "No, he wouldn't know any healing magic. Even I don't know how to do that. However..." He frowns. "I heard a few words from him. He didn't sound like himself. It's possible that he may be under the infections thrall, but not entirely taken by it. Doesn't quite make sense, but..."

Podzol blinks, and even Monomon looks up from her arms to speak. “That’s impossible. No one under the infection’s influence has shown signs of still retaining cognitive functions. Not one fully under its control.”

Lurien takes a breath to speak, then hesitates and looks at Podzol again. "Have you been studying the infection with others in the Archive?"

He frowns. "Yes. I've been administering medical tests on infected patients, and the occasional autopsy when needed."

"How much do you know?"

Podzol crosses his arms. "Well, I've had suspicions it was another god, and the King confirmed that for me, so... I know enough."

"Good." Lurien looks back to Monomon. "I've been giving this some thought ever since the King was attacked. The reports were that a wave of infected came and distracted the Knights while Xero and the Soul Master attacked the King and Queen. And today: the same thing. If this is anything similar to what she could do before, it's possible she might be targeting the Soul Master with the majority of her power. The rest keeps the others in a hive mind, but her focus keeps him in line without being possessed."

Monomon’s visage twists into that of horror, and her tendrils tighten ever so slightly around Quirrel’s form. “...She’s using him...Using him like a weapon to unleash coordinated attacks....”

"She probably did the same with Wek." Lurien crosses his arms. "The King's advisor, completely normal one moment, then stabbing him and speaking in her tongue the next. I wouldn't be surprised if the Soul Master was more recent. Xero was the one who did the most damage last time. The only thing that's abnormal is that this attack didn't target the King."

"Probably because he's with another god," Podzol offers. Lurien's gaze returns to him, so he continues, "There's an even chance the King will be with the Queen whenever he's public, but now plenty of people have seen him with the Nightmare King. There are stories of two gods fighting one, and the one becoming the victor, but three on one? Those aren't good odds."

Monomon is silent for a moment, before she glances down at Quirrel, rubbing his cheeks to wipe away his tears. “Quirrel, sweetie, are you hurt at all? Please, I...I need to know...” Her breathing starts to grow a bit heavier, more ragged, and her tendrils start to tremble.

He hiccups and rubs his eyes, calming down, but still crying. "I... I don't know... My back hurts a little..."

Podzol cranes his neck to look at him, and visibly cringes. "Looks like some minor burns and scrapes. Both of you need to get to a medical tent."

"I told a few others to bring Monomon's tank," Lurien says quickly. "They should be here soon."

Monomon hesitates for a moment, just a moment, all of her being immediately recoiling at the thought of Quirrel being unable to reach her, be reached _by_ her while she was submerged, but logic, the heavy, _heavy_ feeling that was slowly crawling across her entire frame, was demanding her that she needed to take such a risk. Suffocating 5 feet from a tank of acid would not do Quirrel anymore good. He needed help. She needed to breathe. 

She nods, quietly. “Alright.”

•••••

The Seer sighed lightly as she finally saw the last candle catch, and pulled away to watch as the wick was set aflame, a tiny flicker of light amongst all the others to fill the cavern, the air smelling vaguely of cinnamon, an old favorite of hers. She slowly places the other candle she had been grasping back in it’s holder, and steps back to survey her work; a row of them, all in a circle, one half colored red, and the other a pale, creamy yellow. She takes a deep breath, letting it out, letting the smell of the candles, of the fragrance of the smoke, wash over her, and she feels her shoulders droop. The scented part wasn’t exactly necessary for the ritual she was about to undertake, but she felt it was necessary for those who were going to be in the middle of it; the King seemed to forget how easily she could read him. She knew this would not be easy on his mind, nor would it be easy on her own. Dream magic was something she had not touched in a long, long time, and for good reason.

Her eyes flick to one of the many hanging dream-catchers from the ceiling, and she feels her antenna flatten slightly, seeing that it was now nothing more than a withered husk of what it once was, the beads having turned into warped shrapnel while the threads have shrunken and torn, the intricate webbing in the circle left frayed and dangling, looking like the whole thing had been torn apart. It was the 5th to be destroyed like this, burnt and broken beyond repair, left to dangle like a corpse in the wind, always above her head when she opened her eyes. She was sure there would be many more. She lets her eyes narrow slightly as she gazes up at the ruined trinket, before finally grabbing a knife and lifting it up, a flick of the wrist letting it fall to the ground, where she simply kicked it into the corner, grumbling under her breath. “You just had to go and ruin that one, didn’t you? Bruised at least three of my fingers trying to get the threading just right, and you went and burnt it up. I would be more inclined to listen to you if you didn’t go ruining my things, I hope you know that.” 

She lets out one last huff before moving to pour herself a cup of the tea she had made, the kettle left to rest and cool from the fire, and takes a long sip, letting the taste melt away her frustrations. She would’ve spiked it, but she knew she needed the clearest head possible for this; a blending of Nightmare and Dream was not easy, especially not for a rusty old veteran like her. She leans herself against the wall of her cave, sipping again, before she perks one of her antenna, keeping an ear out for her guests.

Nothing, yet. Nothing close, anyways. The cave systems bounced noises from far enough away to warn her of most every intruder. The King and Queen's voices were easy enough to recognize, despite how warped the distance made them. She couldn't hear the others - they must have been whispering or otherwise merely held quieter voices - but the monarchs sounded happy enough. She takes another sip of her tea and turns her eyes back to the lit circle. The Nightmare King, returned from the dead, just as the Queen of Dreams had returned. The comparison wasn't perfectly analogous, but the timing was quite... intriguing.

The voices came clearer, the chatter somehow related to the temperature of the caverns. The Queen was laughingly teasing someone, voice light and airy. The King agreed, a deep tone that would surprise anyone for the small body paired with it. And then a third voice, rough and dry, answered the two with playful annoyance. She let out a breath and blew over her tea. There was power in that voice; she could feel it. The Nightmare King. How long had it been since she had even heard the name aloud, let alone their voice?

She takes one last swig before finally setting her cup down, giving the ruined dreamcatcher one last kick for good measure before finally making her way towards the entrance of the cave, careful to avoid disrupting the flames of the candles as she went, having to hold most of her cloak to her chest to prevent it from dragging and smearing the paint that still had yet to dry; it was best for the ritual if it was fresh. Her antenna twitch as they’re greeted with the colder air of the Resting Grounds, smelling of incense and flowers and freshly dug soil, only now it was tinged with something more, something a bit more...ripe, like a rotting fruit. It was enough to get her antenna flattening in disgust, and she walks closer to the edge of her little cove, letting her eyes scan the ledge of where she knew a Tram Station rested, waiting to see the faces of the new and the old.

A few moments out in the cold, and the four guests - the fourth must have been truly quiet, but she had expected him, if he was still alive, to come as the Nightmare King's most faithful second - the four guests entered her line of vision. She let out a small breath, taking in the tall figure of the foreign king. His face was the same, though his horns were more pointed, and none of the gaudy jewelry hung toward the ground. He wasn't even wearing the fine robes he had been known for. But she should have expected that. Even the Pale King had changed his wardrobe over the centuries. They hadn't noticed her yet.

"I'm just saying, it's ridiculously cold down here and I don't know how you stand it." The Nightmare King shudders, his cloak shifting unnaturally with the movement. "Your Palace was much warmer."

“If you haven’t noticed, it’s a graveyard. It’s supposed to be cold. Have you ever smelled a body that’s kept _warm?_ Trust me, if this place was as warm as you’d want it to be, I wouldn’t be living in here. I’d sooner live in the City with all those air-headed loonies than live in a warm graveyard with a bunch of stinking bodies.” The Seer can’t help but speak up as soon as she hears that voice of his, all rough and grating, letting her eyes narrow slightly. She wondered, vaguely, if she could see a scar across his throat from where the killing blow had been dealt. 

The masked individual, the one that had yet to even so much as say a word, looks up towards her, his expression souring considerably, to the point where she can just _feel_ his distaste for her. The King glances up as well, and his face turns into that soft smile she had seen so many times, lifting up a hand in greeting. “Good to see you too, Seer. I hope the recent earthquake hasn’t brought you any inconvenience?”

“I’m not dead, that’s the least I can ask for.”

"Being alive is definitely something we should all be thankful for," the Nightmare King says, recovering from a moment of simply staring at the moth. The words were said innocently enough, but the Seer couldn't help but connect _being alive_ with the Radiance's inability to properly kill him. He puts a hand on the masked bug’s shoulder and turns his gaze to the King and Queen, inclining his head toward the Seer and her home. "After you."

The Seer takes a few steps back, watching patiently as the King merely spreads his wings, touching down on the platform with only a simple few flaps, while the Queen manages to clear the lip with a well-timed leap. She can’t help but let an antenna twitch, idly wondering in what manner the Nightmare King would climb. The King is the first to turn his head towards her. “I take it everything is in place.”

She nods, still not taking her eyes off the ledge. “Indeed. All I need is...” She’s silent for a moment. “...All I need is a few touches of paint, and then I can start the chant. I assume that masked fellow is that of the Nightmare King’s clan?”

A small plume of reddish smoke snaps into place behind the King and they shake themselves as if reordering feathers after a hasty flight. The Nightmare King readily meets her gaze. "Brumm is my attendee for the ceremony, as the White Lady is the King's, yes."

She tries to not stiffen under the gaze of such deeply crimson eyes, her antenna twitching over and over, unable to shake the scent of darkness, fire, smoke, and above all, fear, just barely lingering amongst the cold of the caverns. Instead, the Seer merely gives out a hum before turning around, walking back into her cove. “Well, let me know if any of you want some tea before we begin. I just brewed it before you arrived. Still warm.”

"Tea sounds nice." The White Lady grins warmly and follows, lacing her fingers through her husband's and pulling him with her.

"I suppose tea wouldn't hurt." Grimm keeps a hand on Brumm's shoulder and they move forward in tandem after sharing a look. "It might be important to mention I've gone through a name change of sorts. I know how magic can be fickle about such... things."

His hand gingerly raises the curtain partitioning the entrance of the cave, and his body all but freezes. Lumafly lamps, hand threaded pillows and cushions, a hearth - all standard things. But he could feel the shift in energy, the almost suffocating presence of _dream essence_ , and his eyes instinctively dart more fully around the room, seizing sight of dozens upon dozens of dreamcatchers, all of different sizes and models, some older, some newer, but all... all....

His fist tightens on Brumm's shoulder, and he feels his Heart beat in some ancient terror.

The King himself merely stood there, looking over what the ritual seemed to entail; red and yellow candles, all lit, gathered together in a wide circle, and...and paint....Bright yellow paint...Fresh, just barely dried, written in intricate patterns of runes...

_Dream, mind, combine, break, open, allow..._

His hand tightens it’s grip around his Lady’s hand.

The Seer similarly eyes her handiwork. "Everything has been prepared. All you need to-"

" _No_."

Eyes snap to Grimm, and he's fairly certain he can't see them for how tight his chest and lungs feel. He could almost feel his throat choking, but it wasn't his throat, and he knew that, but he could _feel it_. A familiar hand touches his own, some word calling out to him, and he manages a stuttering breath before turning on his heel and marching back into the freezing Resting Grounds of Hallownest.

"I can't do this. I can't-"

_Please, brother? Just once?_

“Grimm?” He hears the Lady’s voice, so sweet, so concerned. 

_Wyrm, do you have any idea who he is? He is the Nightmare King. He is the master of fear and death. He cannot be trusted. What would our Radiance think if she knew of you here with him?_

“M-Master?” He hears Brumm’s voice, deep and soft and worried.

 _Master, please, don’t go back in there. One Wyrm, one measly little Wyrm, can’t be worth this. It can’t be worth walking into her clutches_.

The King’s voice is absent, and somehow, even then, he can still hear it.

 _Don’t tell lies to me. A God like you, stuck? Next thing you’ll be telling me is that the sky is red_.

"No. _No_ ." He takes another wheezing breath of frigid air, Heart hammering in his chest. _Help me._ His hands reach up to his throat and his entire body cringes at phantom electricity, a choked noise escaping him, and he grips his horns instead. _Can't breathe. Can't breathe_!

"Master!? Wh-what's-"

 _Don't look at me like this. Helpless. Helpless._ Grimm coughs, doubling over, one hand clutching at his throat and the other holding his knee, and he wheezes. "Off. Get it-" His lungs collapse, another gasp tearing through him.

“ _Master_!” A shadow falls over him, the sound of a deep rumbling voice, stricken with panic.

_What did I tell you?! What did I say would happen?! You just didn’t listen! You didn’t listen and now she has you again!_

“Grimm, breathe, listen to me! You need to breathe! Grimm!”

_How do I know I can really trust you when I know that you plan to use him as a pawn? I felt you in my roots the moment you went out to watch the Wyrm die. I know you seek him just as much as she does._

The King’s voice finally comes to his ears, deep, soft, _familiar_. “Grimm, please, it’s ok! It’s ok! She can’t hurt you! She can’t hurt you here!”

_Sometimes I speculate as to why you were the first person I saw when I crawled free from my own corpse. Sometimes I can’t help but feel as if you wanted to use me somehow. I wonder why that is, Enkay. I wonder, indeed._

Too many voices. Too much noise. He couldn’t hear himself beyond the Heart's frantic beating. He didn't want to hear this, didn't want to feel the knife digging into his chest and twisting at each word. Not while he couldn't breath and had the stupid _collar_ on his neck. Not while _she_ was watching, waiting, expecting him to grin and bear it-

_Grimm. There's nothing around your throat. Breathe._

_I can feel it._

_They're memory fragments. You need to breathe._

He opens his mouth, he takes in a breath, and he feels nothing. His eyes open, and his surroundings have turned red, hazy, dark, the distant pounding of the Heart filling the air, just as it always has. In front of him stands the First, Nightmare King, his head turned down to stare at him, his face kept blank, stoic, almost cold. “...Breathe.”

Grimm does nothing for a long moment, confused and disoriented not only by the change in scenery but the difference in height - was he kneeling? - and turns away from the glare. Empty little puffs and gasps came from his lips. He felt tears prick at his eyes. It hurt. It hurt so much. And he couldn't even do one simple thing.

The true god remains silent, for the most part, though the feeling of heat, of the flames of the Heart, wash over his shell like water. Shadows dance on the edges of the hazy red horizon, the sound of voices all whispering, cooing, comforting, somehow being heard despite the absolute dissonance between bodies. 

_We are safe. None can harm._

_We are surrounded by friends, and they are strong._

_The Light cannot reach us._

_That Essence is no more._

Voices, again, but ones he was more familiar with. He tries to stop the rapid, shallow pulses of his diaphragm, tries to force air into his lungs, and manages half a gulp before coughing and wheezing again. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries again. His lungs inflate more. His throat burns.

The sound of footsteps, light, and delicate, before a presence crouches next to him, a hand resting lightly on his back, idly rubbing back and forth. “Easy there. Easy. You’ll be ok. We won’t let anything hurt you. Neither will he.”

Grimm forces another breath, stuttering and halting, and feels the tears in his eyes well up. His claws clench and unclench against hard rock. He could remember the feeling of the damned catchers fitting - no, being forced over his head. Enkay's head. Another's? Each time the thought surfaced, another background fit behind it. The same person always put it on. Forced it on. Sometimes with help.

_Why would she do that? Why...? Why would our sister...?_

The voice lets out a sigh, a deep one, full of exhaustion, pain. “...In a way, it’s because she was scared, I suppose. Her brother constantly losing his memories, not remembering her or who she was, becoming different people all the while staying the same, the brother she knew becoming nothing more than the linchpin of an entire collective of dead souls, doomed to only exist as a spirit for the rest of time.”

"That's no excuse-" He coughs and whistles in a breath. "-and you know it." He coughs more, bending his forehead closer to his knees. The hand on his back tightens on his shoulder and he shrugs it away. Even after all this time, he still pitied her? After everything she did? What she currently was doing? She didn't deserve sympathy. Such a cruel person... He feels his Heart twinge. _No_. He didn't want to know. He didn't want to hear it. He didn't want to risk falling for it like everyone else did. He didn't want to hope that somehow.... He shakes his head, rubbing his face as his breathing evens out.

“I’m not saying it’s an excuse, Grimm. It never was.” Enkay’s voice is slightly quieter this time. “It’s merely an explanation.”

He considers saying something, another biting comment maybe, but holds his tongue and simply continues to breathe. Risking more memories would only make things worse. And that Enkay was even here in the first place, and the Nightmare King as well.... No. He didn't want anyone to see him like this, least of all them.

“....She won’t hurt you...Not while we’re still here.” Enkay’s voice is even softer now. “I promise you.”

"...You couldn't even protect yourself. It's not like _he_ tried either." He could feel the glare harden on him, and he tensed but didn't apologize.

The voices grow hushed, and Enkay sighs. “Making foolish accusations based on nothing isn’t exactly wise, Grimm. All of us know that isn’t true. All of us except for you, it seems.”

"I saw the fight with my own eyes. I'm not about to discount that simply because _he_ is stronger and older than us." His eyes dart up to his crimson half, meeting him glare for glare. "Maybe there is more that I don't know. After all, I'd be a fool to think I know everything. But don't think I can't see what you're trying to do."

A hand reached for his. "Grimm-"

" _No_." He yanks his hand away, and the flicker of pain on his parent's face makes him avert his gaze again. "I'm not going to be scared into submission like everyone else. I'm not going to let you manipulate me into doing things I don't want to do."

“This is foolish, Grimm, and you know it. How long will you continue to keep us out? Keep _him_ out? You must give yourself into the memories of the Heart, there is no other option.” The Nightmare King can’t help but growl, his lip twitching up in a displeased scowl. “To deny the Heart is to deny yourself. To deny your past. His past. _Our_ past.”

He couldn't say he was wrong. He knew he was right. Grimm couldn't even say he wasn't curious anymore, meeting all these people who had known Enkay. But he couldn't. Not yet. Not now.

He was scared. He always was.

His fists clenched. "So, what are you going to do? Force all those memories on me anyways and pray you don't kill me in doing so? Tell me." He met the Nightmare King's gaze again. "To what does such an esteemed Higher Being as yourself pray to?"

There was instant silence among the voices, and even Enkay’s face goes stricken with fear. The Nightmare King’s face drops into that of brewing rage, like a volcano trembling as the throes of eruption grasped its neck. Within an instant, invisible bonds grab at Grimm’s body, yanking him down to the floor, his face left to press into the crimson red that surrounded them within their shared space, the true God’s voice a venomous hiss. “ _Impudent_ ....Perhaps the words of the little King were true. A squirming, rotten, _indignant_ little child who wails and screams, for coddling, for _attention_.” 

The bonds tighten ever so slightly, just enough to be painful. 

“Wake up, Grimm. Wake up and realize who you are. You are a _God_ , a God of flames and demons, a God of nightmares and death. The Heart is you, as you are the Heart. You cannot run from it, as a mortal cannot run from their own shadow. Know this, Grimm. Accept it. For if you don’t, you will surely die, and take all of us with it.”

He winces, claws reflexively digging into the ground and breathing escalating again. He yanks at his wrists and his elbows slam into the ground. He grits his teeth. "A-and I'll say, _again-_ " Air leaves him and he stutters to bring it back. "What do you plan - on doing about it?"

There was a low growl for a moment, and it looked as if the Nightmare King wanted to do exactly what Grimm had accused him of, his claws clenching into fists, his eyes flaring with crimson fire, looking as if his rage was starting to consume him. But then, just as quickly, it dissipates, and he lets out a sigh. “...Time will come. It always does.” He glances around, as if just now noticing where they were, and lets out a scoff. “Your companion’s are worried for you. Try to keep a _leash_ on your irksome mind, this time.” 

He snaps his fingers, and within an instant, Grimm’s vision reveals the dark blue ceiling of the cavern, worried faces crouched over him, voices merely a dim buzz against his head. A horrific, grating gasp pulls from him and he coughs roughly, enough that he sits up and brings his wrist up to cover his mouth. There's motion around him that he doesn't quite care for. His body rests on something soft. He pants softly, weakly, trying to reorganize his thoughts and shove the last few minutes of existence into the furthest corner of his mind. "Ah. Hm. How undignified."

All three faces take a step back as they see him pitch upwards to cough, and for a moment, all is silent. A new face enters his vision, the old moth, her eyes holding far more understanding than he would’ve liked, and she silently holds out a small cup of warm, brown tea. “...Drink. I’m sure your throat must be killing you.”

He eyes the cup warily, paranoid for a moment that it was poisoned with something, but on seeing the still worried looks of those around him, he sighs and takes it. He gazes at it, determines there's little to no magic in it, and takes a sip with a small, mumbled thanks.

She nods softly, before turning around, walking with a slight limp back over to a kettle, hanging over a fire, picking it up to pour out some more tea. “You’ll have to forgive me for my dream catchers, Nightmare King. They are not of my faith in the Light, but a protection from her. For all I know, I am the last of my kind, and I do not intend to fall prey to her whims. Even though I am of her creation, know that you are safe here.”

"...Sure." He sits more upright, hunching as he sees dream catchers hanging toward him. The King and Queen watch him worriedly, brows furrowed with a touch of confusion. Brumm relaxes next to Grimm as he finds a more comfortable position to sit in. "Apologies for... the excitement. I wasn't expecting that."

“It’s no trouble. It’s understandable considering all you had went through in the past.” She shrugs softly, sipping from her own cup of tea. “Surprised you didn’t just set them all on fire.”

"I'm not sure that would have worked." He rubs his face, the voices still echoing through his mind.

"Are you alright, Master?" Brumm frowns as he watches Grimm's face. "Maybe we should... Maybe it would be better to reschedule-"

"No. No, I'm fine." He exhales tiredly. "The ritual will make me tired anyway. Might as well get it over with now."

“Hmm...I see.” She nods softly before looking over at the King. “And you, Pale King? Are you well enough to proceed?”

The King, who has been practically glued to his Lady’s side the entire time, hand clenching to her own, stiffens for a moment, as if startled. His eyes glance to the paint of the circle, then to the candles, then to the Seer. “...Must the paint be used upon our bodies?”

“Only for the connection point, which is the forehead. No paint anywhere else.” 

He nods softly, taking a deep breath, and the Lady gives him a soft, warm hug, before drawing back. His hand gives her own one last squeeze, before it falls away to his own chest. “...How shall we start?”

"Well, for one thing..." She rubs her temple lightly. "You both will need to remove your clothes. Then I'll paint the sigil on your foreheads and you enter the circle. I'll explain more from there. So if you two could do that..."

"Hmm. It's going to be rather cold, but..." Grimm sighs and carefully stands, parting his cloak from his chest and folding it into nothingness. He shivers and rubs his arms, raising a brow at the King. "Next time, buy me dinner first."

The King himself can’t help but scowl at Grimm, rolling his eyes as a slight pink hue flushes over his cheeks, letting his own robes drop to the floor at his feet, wings fluttering behind him. “Must you really make such comments? It’s so unrefined. Damn near childish.”

He rolls his eyes, ready to make a comment, but the words sizzle away on his tongue as he recalls the Nightmare King's words. He looks away. "Onto the paint then."

The King’s face changes once again, quickly turning more serious, more cold, and he takes a deep breath before letting it out. “..Indeed.” 

The Seer carefully picks up a clay jar of yellow paint, it’s rim stained with dried splatters, and dips a paintbrush into it, giving it a few quick stirs before walking over to Grimm first. “Bend down, please. Can’t quite reach you up there.”

"Of course." He kneels to her level, somewhat disconcerted with having his face so close to hers. "Tell me if it doesn't set. There might be other sigils you need if my magic decides to be... uncooperative."

“Duly noted.” She dips the paintbrush one last time before she lifts it up, the bristles touching to his carapace. The paint felt cold, wet, thick, almost like that of slime, and the brush was so light, it almost was enough to feel ticklish, though it wasn’t long before Grimm could feel the faint tremors of dream magic,  crackling against his skin, his flesh, tingling through his nerves, as if it was a bitter chill of cold sinking into his mind.

He shivers again, rubbing his arm once and then stilling himself. He had never truly felt _dream_ magic. Nothing fresh at least. It was familiar in how it settled, as if trying to lull him to sleep, but there was nothing comfortable about it. The Seer lowers the brush and nods, and he stands, arms pinned across his chest to keep from messing with the paint. "I forget. Does it need to dry?"

“It’s best if it is done with fresh paint.” She turns around to face the King, and she can’t help but crack a smirk when she sees that she is practically eye-level with him, only being surpassed by the spines of his crown. 

He can’t help but give her a slight glare, as if reading her mind. “Don’t you dare.”

“Really, King-“

“I mean it.” 

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of-“

“Then stop bringing it up.”

“Bringing up what? You mustn’t be so vague.”

“I-You know fully well what I mean.”

“Then go ahead and say it.”

“Will you just get the damn paint on?”

Her smirk grows downright mischievous, and she holds up the brush. “Already have.”

The King blinks, in shock. “W-What?” He almost lifts a claw up to his forehead, but thinks better of it and puts his hand down. “..I...I didn’t even...”

“Dreams are about more than just sleeping, King.” She chuckles at that.

Grimm cocks a brow, blinking at the little exchange. "That was... actually rather impressive. And very true." He glances at Brumm, finding him still sitting where he had left him, and allows their gazes to hold for a moment longer than usual. "Now we enter the circle, yes?"

“Indeed.” She turns to face Brumm, an antenna twitching as she does so. “I expect that you know that I will need your help to complete the spell. Please, stand on the side of the circle where there are red candles, behind the King.”

The White Lady blinks as Brumm stands. "You need his help? I thought he was merely here to observe."

"He's here to observe, yes. After the ceremony." Grimm moves into position, stepping carefully over the white candles as the King settles in front of him. "But in order to do this with _me_ , both nightmares and dreams need to be called. And only my most esteemed priest knows the words for my half."

“Mrm...Indeed.” Brumm takes a moment to adjust his clothing before walking over to his side of the candles, making sure to keep his feet firmly out of the line of the circle. 

The Seer herself moves to Grimm’s side of the circle, and she takes one last sip of her tea before clearing her throat. “Alright, lastly, I need you two to hold hands while keeping your heads close together. Make sure the paint on both your foreheads are _facing_ each other, that means your eyes should be pointed down. Don’t look up, whatever you do. Got it?”

The King, standing motionless amongst the scarlet wax of the candlelight, merely nods stiffly, his nostrils flaring, his hands quivering, clenched into hard fists as his arms fold over his chest. His eyes are constantly shifting, as if trying to find a place to settle on.

Grimm hums, watching the King, and holds his hands toward the King. "Given our height differences, we might actually be looking at each other.... Unless we sit down?"

There was silence for a moment, before the Seer pipes up. “If you feel that is necessary.” 

The King slowly brings himself to sit down, carefully avoiding the flames of the candles as he does so, his hands clenching even harder now, before slowly unfurling to hold out towards Grimm, still not saying a word. His eyes squeeze shut, and when Grimm takes ahold of his claws, he feels them shaking.

"Hm." He absently runs a thumb over the King's knuckles, and leans his head down toward him. "I find focusing on the candles soothing during these. The chanting always puts me on edge."

“....Yes...Y-Yes of course...” His own hands slowly move, interlocking their fingers, palms pressing together. It was the first time Grimm had ever actually felt the King’s hands against his own, and what he felt was..interesting. The carapace of his palms felt rougher, less smooth than his own, a few chips or cracks here and there where damage had been done. His claws were surprisingly smooth in comparison, not a single sign of damage to be found, the curvature of the finger remaining mostly a flawless white hue while the tips were stained black, curling into a deadly point, easily enough to rip open flesh.

Grimm's own hands are fairly average in comparison. Larger than the King's, but smoother and thinner. His claws are trimmed to small points, enough to be used if necessary, but clearly not wanted as a weapon. An odd, raised bump runs along his right palm, dead in the center of it, and that was the only thing of note.

"Have you ever thought of painting your nails?"

"Master," Brumm sighs.

"What? Look at these things. They're gorgeous." Grimm runs his thumb over a claw.

The King’s cheeks can’t help but flush,  and though he doesn’t open his eyes, Grimm can tell his expression is of that of both flattery and mild embarrassment. “You absolute oaf...Quit being so sappy...” 

The Seer can’t help but smirk. “If you’re quite finished, we have a ritual that needs to be done.”

"Oh, yes, of course." Grimm shifts slightly. "Actually, don't mind if I start glowing. That's normal."

Her brow perks. "I wasn't aware you glow too."

"Nightmare essence tends to leak out a little during rituals with me."

"Good to know. Anything else?"

"That should be it."

"Alright. Shall we begin?" The Seer looks up at Brumm.

“Mrm....Indeed.” Brumm nods softly, before taking a deep breath, letting it out slowly. He then holds out his arms in front of him, waiting for the Seer to begin the chant, so that he may follow suit.

She takes a deep breath, meeting his gaze, and nods as she begins reciting long memorized lines. Brumm's voice overlaps hers, both uttering insensible words, a sort of pattern to them, but nothing that made sense. The notes were short, sharp, but almost melodic, a strange dichotomy that brought a sense of sharpness and dullness even the White Lady could feel. Grimm exhales, forcing his shoulders to relax as a sort of weight pulled his head down. The King feels the weight too, heavy, yet light, almost as if his mind was stuffed full with cotton, and his eyes begin to droop down to the dirt, claws clenching against Grimm’s hands, savoring the heat of his carapace, trying to keep his breathing steady.

Grimm gently tightens his hands around the King's, a gentle, consistent pressure, and lets out another breath. The chanting grows louder, some of the strange words repeating, and the candles flicker in an absent breeze. The symbols on their foreheads brighten and then ignite, and the Lady tenses, waiting for either party to cringe from a burn, but it doesn't come. Their heads bend toward each other as two candles, one white and one red, snuff themselves out. Another, and another, and another, and as the light of the room continues fade, Grimm's chest pulses crimson, each brighter than the last. He exhales again, and his body goes almost entirely lax, bending forward ever so slowly with the weight of his head. Finally, the last two candles go out, and for a moment, the only light to be seen is the dim red haze in Grimm’s chest, and the glowing light of the paint on their foreheads. Then, slowly, both figures of the King and Grimm slump, their bodies crumpling in a heap on the floor, their moving chests signifying the depth of their slumber.

The White Lady jumps at the suddenness, and stares at the two gods fallen on the ground as Brumm and the Seer stop chanting. "Is that... is that it?"

"Yes, that should be it." The Seer peers at the two of them, watching as the paint burns faintly along their brows. She couldn't help but notice one of their hands were still linked. "We shouldn't move them. They've established their own links."

Brumm hums and nods. "A strong one too. They're in the Nightmare King's hands now."

"Hmm." The Seer smiles after a moment and looks between the two. "Well, this might take some time. Would anyone want more tea?"

••••

The King’s mind slowly began to resurface from the blackness, from the sweeping wave of magic that had washed over his carapace and left his thoughts to drown amongst it’s proverbial sea, and when he did, when his eyes began to twitch and slowly open, he could tell immediately that something was off, was amiss. He did not feel the paralyzing, dizzying heat of the Heart, nor did it’s slow, corpse-like beat rattle through his body and leave his bones shaking in their sockets. Instead, he felt nothing more than a gentle, warm breeze, and the sounds that drifted through them were a far cry from the pulse of that awful Heart. Slowly, he opens his eyes, and when he does, he can’t help but feel absolutely stunned.

The smell of burning candles, the pungent aroma of smoke and a strong herbal scent hung heavy in the air, so thick that the King could practically taste the flavor of sugar upon his lips. He found himself sitting on a white, marbled floor, all four arms resting limp in his lap, legs crossed, all the while the soft bells of wind chimes swung daintily in the unseen breeze, while golden incense burners hung from the clouds above, the smoke drifting free of their slots a rippling iridescent sheen, filling the tranquil air with a resplendent hue. Faintly, amidst the windchimes, could the sound of voices be heard, a cacophony of laughter, cheering, shouting and talking, distant, but there all the same, as if one was in the middle of a busy crowd and there were just too many voices to hear. If one were brave enough to look down over the ledge of the platform, they would be able to see the kingdom, far down below sparkling and shining with power, with peace, security, freedom, a white speck amongst the blackened landscape of the hells beyond. Scattered all around the platform were papers, notebooks, charts and graphs, all depicting many, many different topics; the nerves within a butterfly's wing, the digestive tract of a termite, a recipe for tea leaves, a taste study of different fruits, a study on Charms and how they work, the blueprints to a running water system below a city.

The clouds that surrounded the platform were thick, heavy, sparkling like snow in the sun’s rays, and if one were to look close enough, they could see an absolutely massive shape hiding behind them, it’s body curled around the tips of mountains like they were handholds, it’s maw raised high into the air, as if baring it’s ghastly teeth in defiance at the celestials that spawned the world they now inhabited. The King slowly stood, entranced at the sight of the titanic beast that lay hidden beyond the skies, unable to resist the twinge of familiarity that made his heart twist. “...Is this...my mind?”

"It appears so."

The King jumps, twirling around, the figure of the Nightmare King standing where he had just been staring, clawed fingers gently messing with a wind chime. They stop after a moment and look over at him, eyeing him for a moment before continuing to scan their surroundings.

"Incredibly healthy, if I may say so myself." They walk toward him, arms pulling back into the mimicry of Grimm's cloak. "For a King, at least. Quite large as well. Could hide quite a few things in here. And the sun, too.... Must be your subconscious at play."

The King stares for a moment before his eyes trial back up to the clouds, their tranquil forms being disturbed by harsh beams of sunlight, stabbed through their fluffy bodies like holy blades, and something in his gut twists ever so slightly. “...Indeed...” He shakes his head, moving away from the edge, head turning this way and that, fascinated with how solid everything feels. “...How is it possible? How...How can Essence, how can Dream magic make something so...so...” He pauses, claws wriggling through the air for a moment, as if trying to snatch the word up in his grasp. “... _real_?”

"Hm." The Nightmare King shrugs lightly. "What makes reality real other than what we say? And who's to say what happens in the mind isn't real?" He watches a paper full of diagrams float around in front of him. "You're a very scientific individual. I'm not sure if your instruments would work here, but I've heard rumors you could study this realm better from the outside. Well, better for mortals and gods who aren't connected to this plane. It's a rather subjective matter."

“...Fascinating...” The King puts a hand to his chin, a claw tapping over his lip as his eyes narrow, a rather familiar expression falling over his face, one that hasn’t been seen in centuries; it was that of concentration, of puzzlement, of a harsh and steely desire to tear apart the delicacies of the paradox in front of him until it finally exposed all of it’s deepest secrets to his piercing gaze. It was the hunger for knowledge, deep, and practically bottomless. 

Already the air around them began to blow a bit harder, and the surroundings of the temple they were standing upon changed; instead of scriptures and scrolls, it was bloody scalpels and bonesaws, fresh ink and blank paper, buckets of blood and organs ripped straight from hollow corpses, drained and left to dry. Books were opened, exposing long, long lists and fresh sketches, half eaten food scattered in bowls and plates, and voices began to fill the air, voices that were all his own. 

 _For knowledge, of course! I’m doing this for knowledge! This one little moth was only 20 years old when she had died, and yet the moths are known to practically live forever. I intend to find out the cause of her death. That, and I have yet to compare moth organs to butterfly organs_.

_Bring that bucket over here! I’m going to need to drain the stomach! It looks like the last thing she ate was an apple!_

_This caterpillar apparently died in its cocoon just before it could properly pupate. It’s just what I need to determine my theory of butterfly metamorphosis_.

The King’s face twists into that of surprise when he realizes what he’s hearing, and just as he glances up, shock stricken in his face, the air lights up with a thunderclap, and their surroundings turn back to what they were before, though the breeze is gone, and the air is now disturbingly silent, the sunlight having dimmed. The King looks away from his guest’s gaze, clearing his throat softly. “...I...I’m sorry you had to see that.”

"Oh, please." He waves a hand, moving to peer over the edge of the massive platform they stood on. "I've seen and heard much worse than that. I dare say the Four Hundred and Fifty Second would have made you look like a walk in the park."

The King raises a brow at such an overwhelmingly lax reaction, tilting his head for a moment. “...I take it that’s one of your many, er...selves?”

"Yes. She was known for waging wars and then digging up the corpses when the survivors tried to lay their people to rest. I told her to stop out of..." He waves a hand, searching for the right word. "General decency. But she never listened."

“...Any _reason_ as to why she would dig up the corpses?”

"Reason?" He frowns, turning toward him, and looks up as if he could see through his own brow. "She didn't _need_ one, but sometimes she just really hated those fighting her and wanted to piss them off again. Most of the time she just said it was fun."

“Hmm...” He nods softly, but says nothing in response. Some part of him wanted to know if Grimm had been the same, if he had been just as cruel, even if in a different way. But he ultimately decided against it. If he was going to get answers about _that,_ he'd ask Grimm himself. He looks around the temple for a moment before crossing his arms. “..I take it this room will have the annoying tendency to show off my every thought?”

"Only ones you are thinking intensely." The Nightmare King walks back to him leisurely. "Emotions play a big role here; they can exacerbate elements of your mind and make them more physical. Controlling things differs from person to person, but I've noticed that quite a few have a tendency to yell their commands to varying degrees of success. If you wanted to, you could change your entire landscape, either momentarily or permanently; I don't recommend it, since it could have adverse affects on your mental health." He rolls his claws against his arm. "Anything else? Hrm... Ah, right. It's possible for you to eject me prematurely. This session will last as long as you wish, but if you, for whatever reason, decide you _desperately_ want to be alone or otherwise end this, you can do so with mere thought and concentration. I would appreciate you not doing so without warning."

The King is quiet for a moment before he nods, softly. “Of course..” He pauses, and then a table manifests out of the ether behind them, a simple wooden structure, painted white, carved with intricate illustrations of insect wings, crowns, and vines. The chairs were simple as well, cushioned with white pillows, and on top of the table sat two cups, steaming with tea. The King turns to the structure, and after a moment of silence, gestures towards it. “Please. I’d much rather sit during this discussion than stand.”

"Of course." He moves to take a seat, but doesn't lean back, instead looking over the details of the table and running a finger over them. "Is this a table from your Palace?"

“Indeed. Crafted by one of the many carpenters that live in my kingdom’s capital.” He moves to take his cup of tea, blowing at it gently before taking a sip. 

"Interesting." He lifts his own tea cup, watching the tea ripple. "Most people try to make completely new things their first time 'round. It's much easier taking from what you already know."

“I’d rather not entirely waste time coming up with metaphysical chairs and tables, especially not when we went through all that trouble to allow us to speak together.”

"Yes, I suppose so." The Nightmare King finishes inspecting his tea and finally sips at it. "We have much to talk about, but I find it necessary to tell you beforehand that it's only you and I here. The others are... well, they were here, for a moment, but I sent them back." He sets the teacup on the table. "I hope that's alright."

He’s silent for a moment before the King nods softly. “It...It is probably for the best...” His stomach grows into a knot at the sheer thought of seeing Enkay in such a blood-soaked state, and he sips his tea to help shoo his thoughts away.

He hums lightly and nods. "Good. Before moving to the more pressing matters, I want to reiterate your side of our deal: getting Grimm to remember his past."

That gets the King to raise a brow slightly. “From what I had seen earlier, it seems just having him around certain objects is enough to kickstart _something_. Could you explain what exactly happened that prompted him to react so...viscerally?”

"Simple. He saw something that made him and his past selves fear for their safety." The Nightmare King takes another sip of his tea, keeping eye contact with him. "Amongst the Troupe, we've tried showing him other things Enkay owned, but he doesn't react to them. His writing, his scripts, his paintings. The closest we got was Brumm playing Enkay's favorite songs, and Grimm almost burned all their music because of it." He huffs, bringing a hand to one of his horns and drawing circles around the shell there. "When he gets emotional, he's more likely to remember things, at least for a few moments. When _his past selves_ get emotional... the effect lasts longer."

The King stares for a moment, in shock, and something in his expression seems to fall, to wilt, like petals of a flower being crushed under a fist. “...His...his music is gone? The-The music sheets? They’re all gone?”

"Oh, no, no. Not at all." The Nightmare King straightens somewhat. "Grimm _tried_ to burn the music, but we managed to calm him down before he could. Conserving our history is something everyone involved has a hand in. Brumm had to swear never to play Enkay's music in his presence, though. A shame, but it keeps the music in one piece."

Instantly that wilted look is gone, and the King even places a hand upon his chest, his breathing almost shaky for a moment. “Oh...Oh thank Gods....I..I thought for a second I would...” He shakes his head and moves to take a gulp of his tea, trying to regain his composure. “..Please...continue.”

"Hmm..." He puts down his tea. "I hate doing this, but the only way to make Grimm remember is to get him emotional and simply... tell him everything you can, show him anything you think might help. You could even try and reenact events! It won't be pretty, but it's for his own good."

“I’ve been trying, but I’m trying to do it slowly. I can’t just...just...start unloading everything I can onto him; that would surely make him suspicious of me, even if it’s for a just cause.” His eyes narrow for a moment. “Does he even know that you’re trying to do this? To get me to make him remember?”

"Mm." He looks aside. "He's much more perceptive than he's let me think. I didn't tell him, but he figured it out. Said as much to my face not all too long ago. I don't think he suspects you, though."

“I...” He goes quiet for a moment. “..If he doesn’t want this to happen, why make me do it? Why use me as your scapegoat? It’s made pretty damn clear to me he doesn’t want to be consumed with the past of his father, especially not the father that he witnessed _die_.”

"By cutting himself from the past of his ancestors, he's willfully cutting himself from the very power that keeps him alive." The Nightmare King purses his lips and shrugs defeatedly. "Others have done similar things. They've all died prematurely. The first symptom is receiving the Child early, and, well... He's only a few thousand years old. He's barely half the age Enkay was when he met you."

That gets the King to go quiet, and he looks downwards at his tea cup, brow furrowed as an intense expression of conflict and worry flitters over his face. “...So you believe that if Grimm doesn’t accept the memories of the Heart, he will die?”

"I'm certain of it."

He’s silent for a moment, before he finally lets out a sigh. “...Very well...If it means saving his life, then I’ll do whatever it takes.”

"Good." He looks aside. "I believe that brings us to the Void Heart. How much do you know of charms?"

That gets the King to blink, looking upwards. “...I know much of them, though I’ve never crafted one of my own before....I take it it’s a Charm that somehow affects the Void?”

"Essentially, yes." He draws a circle in the air, leaving a shimmering outline, and snatches the little charm from thin air. "I'm not sure of its limits, but I can tell you it was born of a particularly powerful deal made with none other than the Shade Lord themself." He turns it over in his hands. "I believe it renders Void harmless to the owner."

The King ponders the words for a moment, but remembers the sight of the Void resting in his palm with no hint of pain or corruption and shakes his head. “No, it must be capable of something different. I held the Void earlier, this same morning, with no charm of any sort. It merely...rested in my hand.”

"Well, that's precisely the thing about this charm. I never used it, and none of my reincarnations have either. But we still appear to have some kind of... resistance to its more deadly side. It doesn't require any kind of use. It merely knows who its owner is." He sets the charm on the table and nudges it toward the King.

That gets the King’s face to fall into that of shock, and he moves to pick it up, tracing a thumb over its polished, smooth surface, claw trailing all around the intricate groovings that lie etched into it’s surface. “...You say that the Charm...chooses who wears it?”

"To a degree, I suppose. You say you held Void without being hurt? Held it in your hands?"

“Indeed. Grimm had been nervous about the Shade Lord possibly twisting the words of our deal, and...Well, I proved him wrong.” He holds out his hand, and a blob of the perilous substance wells up in his palm like that of a liquid, swelling against his claws, but never daring to drip past their tips, inflating like a balloon until it sits prettily, balanced upon his hand. “There it sat, perfectly contained on my skin. Not moving. Not moving to corrode my shell. Not a single twitch.” 

"Hm." The Nightmare King links his fingers together, watching his hand. "Intriguing. I suppose the results could be different what with your deal, but.... Hm. Whatever it does, I'm sure you'll have more use for it. I don't think it likes me or my incarnations very much. I suppose it makes sense, given our histories..."

The King blinks, and the Void in his outstretched palm dissipates like smoke as he pulls it back. “...History?”

"Yes, I'm quite the ancient being, Pale King." A subtle smirk spreads across his face. "There are some things even I've forgotten, but I think I have a better idea than most others."

A small part of the King couldn’t help but revel in the smug certainty of the God before him, and it makes his lips curl up in a smirk as well. “I have a feeling that you’ll tell quite the story then.”

"Mm." His smirk grows. "Do you really want to know?"

“I’ve known two of your incarnations so far. I know damn well you can’t resist an opportunity to start running your mouth.” The King’s own smirk grows in turn, and he actually suppresses a chuckle.

The Nightmare King doesn't suppress his own. The sound is just as mischievous as all the stories told of him. "Very well. But the book is still being written, so I'll only be giving you the basics. Alright?"

“A pity, but if you must, you must.” He leans back in his chair, giving his cup of tea a sip, and as it pulls back from his lips, it begins to refill.

"Essentially, the pool of Void left under your kingdom is the remnants of a massive battle the Shade Lord fought," the Nightmare King says easily, "and lost." He pauses for a reaction.

The King waves a hand in response. “I am already familiar with the concept of the Shade Lord’s death. Grimm was responsible for explaining that, as well as the rather perplexing theory of Gods being capable of... _splitting_ , as he put it.”

"Ah, he did?" He rubs his chin. "Must not have been paying attention at the moment. He's putting quite a few things together.... Well, anyways." He waves a hand dismissively and leans forward. "I've only talked with the Shade Lord a handful of times in my life, and from what little they told me, it appears as if the killing blow deprived them of the two things necessary to... how should I put this... physically manifest. It wasn't a _mortal_ blow, but one that shattered their consciousness, entirely shredded the link between their body and their mind."

The King can’t help but think of the towering, imposing form of the Shade Lord, how imposing and _otherworldly_ it had seemed from within it’s chains, and a small part of himself withers, clutched in the grip of fear. “Hm...Must’ve been quite a blow...To think that there existed a creature that could hold such power as to break a God’s consciousness so completely...”

"Like all wounds, it heals." He waves a hand again, just as dismissive. "As you've seen with Grimm, there are ways to temporarily restore the Shade Lord's presence. The method he used was one I crafted myself, a long, _long_ time ago during one of the many godly wars." The Nightmare King links his hands together in front of his face and peers at the Pale King a bit more seriously. "I suppose I was young at the time, but the Shade Lord had already been long disposed of, left as fragments of horror stories meant to keep little bugs from wandering too far off in the Wastes. I'm fairly certain _someone_ destroyed as many documents on them as possible, but I managed to piece enough together to conjure them in a time of need. It wasn't as difficult as I'd thought. After all, something with so much fear clinging to its name... close enough to a living nightmare, isn't it?"

The King’s face falls away into that of shock, of fear, of stunned silence, and he feels a chill run down his spine. The wind blows by a little harder, a little colder, and he doesn’t speak for a moment. “...Continue...”

The Nightmare King smiles at him, somewhat less haunting, somewhat more soft, but something was still eerily... wrong about it. "I think you already know the results of my meeting with the Shade Lord. I asked them to stymie the flow of magic between the Nightmare Realm and I. It was too much for me to handle by myself. And everyone who knows anything about the Shade Lord knows that Void can burn through anything and everything, regardless of material."

“...The being who created a buffer between the magic and the body.” He nods softly, and his expression looks vaguely haunted. “...So you too made a deal with the Shade Lord...”

"I won't say it was the best decision in my life, but I made it and I can't take it back. It's led to some intriguing discoveries, too." He shifts and leans further across the table, tapping the Void Heart charm. "Void can do many things. I still don't understand _how_ the Shade Lord could reach into the Nightmare Realm, or toward it, or what have you. But they did, and it very nearly severed my link to reality. If you can harness the power of Void, I have no doubt you can do something similar to my-" He stops himself suddenly, and shrinks back, a look of hurt crossing his features. "...To Radiance. She was... obsessed with what I did to myself. I have no doubt that She tried to... perhaps... replicate the result in some way. I never told Her about the Shade Lord, but it's possible She realized I had trapped a piece of myself within the Nightmare Realm, and that She sought to do something similar to Herself. I have no idea how else She could have survived Her mortal body's decay."

The King looks away upon mention of the great moth goddess, and he tries his damndest to keep his claws from shaking, hands clenching into fists. “...If that is true....It also might be the cause for this damned infection...”

"Precisely my thoughts." He sits back in his chair. "She has no body to return to, yet She still wants to meddle in the affairs of mortals. Truly a vengeful ghost if ever I saw one."

He can’t help but scoff at that. “Vengeful is certainly a kind way to put it. The first moment She could, She used one of my own royal workers to sink a knife into my throat. She spoke to me through her mouth, her tongue, and promised me my death.” His eyes were filled with anger, with a bitter, bitter hatred, but his hands shook against his cup, and the wind began to blow harder. The skies began to dim, to darken, and the figure of the dragon behind the clouds let out a low, droning growl that rumbled like thunder.

"She could be many other things..." The Nightmare King trails off and glances around, noticing the approach of the clouds. "Perhaps we should talk of something else, dear King."

The King shakes his head and takes a big gulp of his tea before putting his head in his hands, rubbing his forehead, eyes squeezed shut as he lets out a heavy sigh. “...Forgive me...I..She...” His hands curl into fists. “...has left many scars.”

He frowns at him, then looks aside at a wind chime. "She... wasn't always like this. She used to be rather joyful, actually. But I know what you mean."

“I know, too. I know Her other side. I’ve seen Her treat the moths under Her with the most sublime of care.” His hands tremble. “When She found me on the edge of Her home, She took me in, washed my shell of blood, gave me a place amongst Her temple....She taught me...how to make tea...How to speak the common tongue...She showed me so many things, so many books and scrolls and ways to use her magic to its fullest potential...” The air darkens, more and more, the clouds begin to grow heavy and black, the land far, far below starts to crack, starts to catch alight with what look to be flames.

The Nightmare King swallows roughly, watching him and ignoring their surroundings. Hesitantly, he reaches across the table again and gently covers the King's hands with his own. "Don't. Don't do this to yourself. It won't do you any good."

There was silence for a moment, silence filled with many conflicting emotions, emotions that seemed to corrode at the King’s chest until all that could be felt was a sharp, painful numbness, a horrifically empty ache that was enough to make tears spring to his eyes, no matter how much he wished they wouldn’t. His claws slowly move to curl around Nightmare King’s hands, squeezing down, squeezing softly, taking solace in the heat, in the warmth of his palms, and his breathing comes out shaky. His voice is hoarse, rough, and it takes all his concentration to not let his thoughts manifest around them. “...Why....Why couldn’t you have just...just _stopped_ her? Why...” He hesitates, and he almost doesn’t speak again, but the question eats away more and more at the numbness, until the agony makes the tears flow faster. “...Why couldn’t you have just... _killed_ her?”

The Nightmare King squeezes his hand at the words, covering for the shaking of his fingers, and looks away from him. “...You think I didn’t try? I tried stopping her. But she...” He swallowed. “She was my sister, Pale King. You may have seen the better parts of her three thousand and some odd years ago, but you didn’t see her in the beginning. You didn’t see her at her best, and you didn’t see her decline. I don’t expect you to understand, but….” The words trail off, lost for a moment before he reclaims them. “She needed help at the time. But it never worked.”

Something in the Nightmare King’s words is enough to make a bitter poison well up in his chest, souring the agony dwelling within and only causing the tears to burn against his skin. His voice is a bit more shaky this time, and he squeezes down, again, a bit harder. “H..Help? _Help_ ? You honestly think she needed help when she went and cut off Enkay’s head? When she cut off _your_ head? What about when Enkay would cower at her shadow, hide from her by sneaking into my home, pleading and begging for me to keep him _safe_ ?” He looks up into the face of the Fundament, a look of hurt, of pain, plain as day on his face. “You were _there_ , Nightmare King. You saw her kill you. You watched Enkay die by her hand and you did _nothing_.”

The Nightmare King watches him, caught by his gaze, and preemptively begins stamping on the bittered, painful edges of whatever hope had been creeping up in him. He turns his gaze to the table between them and shakes his hands free. His voice hardens back into the regal tone previously holding the conversation captive. "Before that, Pale King. I meant before that. And what do you think Enkay was doing in her domain anyways? I know he told you his plans, why he sent you to her. He wanted her gone just as much as you do now." His fists clench and he drops them into his lap to hide them. "Plenty of them have wanted her gone. Plenty have tried. I _let them_ try. Do you really think we wouldn't have tried before now?"

The King stares for a moment, his hands now free, now empty of the soft warmth of crimson claws, and for a moment, they are limp upon the table, but then they curl into fists as well, pulling away slowly. “...So you just tossed the task of killing your sister upon your own incarnations? Never bothered to deal with it yourself? Just threw them to the wind? Just-Just...Just _expected_ them to be able to deal with the monster that the Radiance had become?!” His gaze twists into that of anger, cold and disgusted and so full of scrutiny. 

“You didn’t have to _let them_ do anything, Nightmare King. You didn’t have to stand by and let your selves, your incarnations, your-your _children_ throw themselves into the hopeless task of trying to kill someone they _don’t know_ . How many of them died to her? How many? How many of them ended up like Enkay, alone, dead at her feet, slaughtered and laid to waste? Tell me. Tell me _now_!” A hand slams down on the table.

"'Let them...?'" The Fundament exhales, bringing a hand to rub at his face. This wasn't how the conversation was supposed to go. "Think before you speak, Pale King. You have no idea the circumstances under which my history lies. For you, the world is only a few thousand years old, has always been covered in perpetual darkness, small oases wrapped in pure Wastelands. You know nothing, and know nothing of that which you speak."

“What does that have to do with my question? I want to know how many of your selves you let _die_ to her! How many had to fall before you would finally step up and kill her? How many had to be killed and butchered before you would do what needed to be done? Would you have ever finally spared your bloodline the suffering of having to live with your mistakes?! Or would this whole charade of you avoiding the problem and your clan paying the price have gone on forever?! We won’t know now, and do you want to know why that is, Nightmare King?!” 

His wings spread apart, his face contorted with fury, with rage. “IT’S BECAUSE _I_ KILLED HER!”

He frowns, eyes closing, the crease in his brow deepening with each question, with the King's increasing volume, with his mounting anger. He couldn't see the wings spread, but he could hear them, and he slams a fist into the table and growls at him. He slowly stands, ignoring the cracks and splinters under his hand as every inch of his dreadful aura threatened to spill into the pristine white of the King's mind.

" _You..._ " The Nightmare King took a breath, eyes opening to glare into the Pale King's with a knowing gaze aged well behind the soul bearer's comprehension. "Even you have _failed_ to kill her, King. You, who claim victory, have only sewn your own defeat - a _defeat_ I _warned_ Enkay of." He steps forward, the table and chairs vanishing into mist. " _Everything_ we have tried against her has only resulted in _worse_ outcomes. I have been fighting _her_ for millions of years, Pale King! I have tried everything, _including_ giving up. I told them all to stop, that _they_ didn't know what they were getting into, even with my knowledge, and they _refused_ to listen to me."

He grabs the Pale King by the front of his robes. "And _you,_ he who falsely claims victory in the face of defeat, whose kingdom clutches to _my_ robes for any chance of success - _you_ have the gall to claim _I_ have not done enough?" He looks at him with disgust and pushes him away. "Disgraceful."

The King can’t help but feel his breath stiffen the moment he feels those claws dig into his robes, feels himself being ever so slightly hoisted upwards, his feet just barely touching the ground, his wings flaring up in warning, his own fists clenched hard as he tries to fight the instinct to lash out, to strike, to get the Fundament’s claws _away_ from his neck. For a moment, he considers merely letting the matter lie, to let the argument wither, to let his rage ebb to a stop, soothed by the inescapable truth that the Radiance was not dead, despite his best efforts, despite his claim, and was now tearing apart his domain from within. But the memories, of Enkay’s bloodied husk in the tapestry room, of so many statues, all of them lined in row upon row upon row, like glorified memorials. How many of them died screaming? How many of them perished while crying for their father to save them? 

He can’t stop the words from spilling out even after he was released, his voice filled with venom, with utter spite and vitriol, taking a step back, ignorant to the way the clouds around them began to darken, as lightning began to flash around them. “Not as _disgraceful_ as someone who uses their own CHILDREN AS SOLDIERS!”

The Nightmare King scowls, anger radiating at the steady pace. He stays still and narrows his eyes. "You chide my past without knowing it." He tilts his head, a slow, eerie grin spreading across his face. "Do you even know what a dove is? What do you know of the sun? Or the oceans, or lakes, or lagoons, or swamps? What of sea-larks and meadow shrooms? Snowflakes and hail and volcanic ash?" The anger fades, the menace falling away with his smile. He turns away, walking amongst the wind chimes. "No, now all you have is your kingdom and the Wastes, and tales of far away places and horrors and hope. You have bugs and jellyfish and scientifically designed creatures, and nothing else that made life abundant." Back turned to the King, he hugs himself. "You know She is Life, yes? And I, as her other half, am Death."

Their surroundings grew darker, darker, and as it did, the King felt his rage grow even more, turning to face the Nightmare King with a venomous glare, his words shaking with spite. “You’re avoiding my words. You’re trying to change the subject. I do not care if you are Death. I do not care if you once lived in a world that is long bereft of things you claim to have seen! It changes nothing! Wake up, Nightmare King! Wake up to what she did! There is no excuse! You tried, you failed, thousands of your _children_ failed, Enkay still died, Grimm is still a broken shell of what he was meant to be! You created me to become her new _toy_ , her new _obsession_ , and now, _innocents_ are dying because of it! You got your wish in the end! She hates me! She hates me far more than she ever could’ve loved you, and now my entire kingdom, my people, _are paying the price because you couldn’t do what needed to be done!_ ”

"You fail to understand..." The Fundament clenches his fists. He holds the position for a moment, then lowers his arms and turns on him. "Radiance and I were born _together,_ split from the same god. We stood side by side through battle upon bloody battle, swore oath upon oath to each other. We knew ourselves inside and out, _we_ were the only people we could trust!"

The clouds swarming above them momentarily flash with crimson lightning as the shell of the Nightmare King's hands creak with how tightly clenched they are. Hazy silhouettes of war flicker in and out of focus, a pair protecting each other from the world.

"She cared for me even when my powers drained hers, when my powers drained the life out of this planet! _That_ is why I made the deal with the Shade Lord - to _save_ her and everything she loved, to _stop_ killing everything around me - and all anyone ever asks of me or mine is _to kill_ and kill _her!_ " He takes a breath, almost surprised into recognizing the heaving of his own chest. He glares at the King, but there's vulnerability there, an inkling of something he had seen in Grimm's face not even a half dozen times. "When will people understand that _I_ caused this and I can only make it _worse?_ Everything I do... Everything I've tried...." He picks up his hands, staring at them before tossing them down again. "She forces us into this _every time,_ Pale King. I don't _want_ to do any of this! None of us do. One half cannot kill the other, and that's _fact!_ "

Silence was all that greeted the Fundament as the filigrees of pain and sorrow and _shame_ snuck in through his face, and the King’s own face was drained of the rage that had filled it seconds before. The swirling clouds was starting to give way to rain, and the distant rumbling keen of the Wyrm beyond the mountains was the only thing to fill the air, the wind chimes adding a sort of quiet dissonance that only made the quiet all the more eerie. The King’s eyes close, and his wings start to lower, to slump against his back. “...I see...”

The Nightmare King's eyes widen, watery at the two simple words, and he takes a step back as if shocked. The chimes jingle and click between them, water plinking across the ground and wrinkling papers that refused them. His Heart, long still, pulses once amidst the confusing territory.

His knuckles creak as he clenches his fist, and the rain within an inch of him sizzles into nothing. " _No!_ I tried everything. I _did_ everything. I talked to her, I apologized, I fought with her, I ignored her, I did everything she wanted to do! And it was _never_ enough." His shoulders ride up and his eyes squeeze shut. "She kept _me_ sane all that time before I did _this-_ " He slams a hand to his chest. "-and I couldn't do the same for her, and that is on _me,_ but do _not_ tell me I didn't try. And I paid the price for every failure! Those dreamcatchers barely scratch the surface of what she - she _did,_ what she was _capable of doing!_ " He clutches his horns, eyes opening and staring wildly at the ground. "As soon as she found out about her mind control powers, as _soon_ as she figured out how to use them, she _tried...._ One Hundred Thirty Seven was never the same after that. They... they couldn't... still can't..."

The King’s eyes snapped open, his body frozen stiff as his head slowly tilts upwards to stare into the Nightmare King’s eyes. The rain pouring down from the clouds paused, hanging heavy in the air for what felt like an eternity. Then, finally the King raised a trembling, shaking claw to point towards the Fundament, his voice nigh silent, but wracked with an absolutely venomous _hatred_ . “ _You_ ..... _You knew._ ” 

The clouds lights up as thunder crashes through the air and the figure of the Wyrm roars beyond the skies. The land below is suddenly swarmed with fire, with screams, with a looming figure whose eyes burned like raging infernos, every step they made only causing more chaos, more destruction, more death. In one of their talons hangs a limp body, headless, while in another, hangs glowing shackles. The King’s wings spread apart once more as his shell, his claws, his _eyes_ begin to glow a bright, piercing white, beginning to lift off the ground as his voice began to raise. “You _knew_ about Her. You knew about _everything_ . You knew of her magic, of her poison that she called the Light, you _knew_ of her desire to control, to subjugate, to _break_...AND YOU, YOU SENT ME TO HER!!”

Thunder crashes harder and harder, and the monster razing the world below speaks, just barely heard above the chaos. **Let me in, my Priest. No longer will you suffer. No longer will you despair.**

The King barely even registers that the Fundament’s robes is in his grasp, that he’s now off the ground entirely and he’s pulling the Nightmare King with it, rage making his shell grow hot, making his Soul flare and crackle and _roar_ like a blazing inferno, eager to find flesh, to burn, to maim, to _kill_ . “YOU CREATED ME! YOU CREATED ME WITH THE SOLE PURPOSE OF BECOMING HER TOY! YOU MADE ME SO YOU WOULD FINALLY BE RID OF HER ONCE AND FOR ALL! YOU WERE CONTENT WITH PREPPING ME FOR SLAUGHTER, TOSSING ME INTO THE TALONS OF A _MONSTER_ AND LEAVING ME TO HER WHIMS, ALL BECAUSE I WAS ENOUGH TO DISTRACT HER! BECAUSE I WAS DIFFERENT! BECAUSE I WOULD HAVE KEPT HER FROM FINDING YOU! DID YOU NOT CARE OF MY PAIN? DID YOU NOT CARE OF THE AGONY I WOULD BE FORCED TO UNDERGO?! OR WAS I JUST A TOOL TO BE USED FOR YOUR OWN GAIN, NOT GOOD ENOUGH TO LET MYSELF BE TORTURED FOR ALL ETERNITY?!”

His hands clench, twist, the storm raging more and more, lightning flashing, the Dragon roaring from beyond, and his rage reaching a boiling point, tears staining his cheeks. “I fooled myself into thinking that you had no way of knowing what became of me when you died! I told myself that you did not know of what horrors she could unleash! Now I see, now I see the truth! I was a fool! A fool that stumbled blindly into the trap that I was made for!” 

His hands become loose, the light fading from his body. “I...I...I trusted you...” His breathing turns into a rattling wheeze and within seconds, he drops to the floor like a swatted fly, leaving the Fundament to fall. His body is merely a shadow amongst the darkness, crumpled on the floor, hands clutching the sides of his head as the rain pours down, harder, harder, lightning crashing and thunder roaring. The monster from below begins to rise up, up, up, and the King’s voice continues to break and wheeze and creak amongst the wind. “I..I _loved_ you...”

His shadow is seen going limp against the ground, and as the monster’s figure finally reaches the temple’s spires, it’s eyes open, casting hellish beams of light down to illuminate the crumpled figure of the King, curled up in a loose ball as tendrils, a vile, bright orange hue, curl around his throat, his wrists, tightening, tightening. His eyes were closed, his hands were balled into feeble fists, and he wasn’t moving, wasn’t even thrashing, just laying there and wheezing, the Radiance’s voice, a cooing hiss  of pure malice and mock comfort finally manifest. 

**Let me in, my precious Wyrm. Let me in, and let my light take away the pain. You will no longer suffer, for I will love you and care for you as long as the light lives in you. You cannot keep me out forever. You cannot resist me forever. I will love you, my little Wyrm. I will mold you. I will break you. And you will be mine.**

 The Nightmare King stumbles as he hits the ground, but doesn't fall, staring with wide eyes and trembling limbs as his cloak smolders with leftover Soul energy. He watches the Pale King, huddled on the floor and trapped within his own thoughts and fears, before turning his eyes on the larger, growing threat. A great, tendril armed mass hung above him, a triptych crown looming high into the clouds and bladed legs hovering ominously close to the King's back. Slowly, the Nightmare King reaches into his cloak and produces, inch by inch, a red and silver blade. His eyes flick back to the Pale King, who has yet to release his own crown. He releases a breath and approaches the beast.

 "Enkay never forgave himself for following that plan," he murmurs, hand tightening around his sword as the crimson inlay glowed amidst the dark. "That's why he stayed. For you. So you wouldn't be alone through it all."

 The beast chitters. **You cannot steal what is mine, dear Brother. You cannot-**

 "You are not Her," he says softly, lifting his blade and running his palm along its flat. "You do not belong here."

 She hisses, shifting back a few feet at the sight of his blade. **You cannot-**

 "I _said!_ " He stands in front of the Pale King, between him and the coagulated nightmare fuel, and swipes the blade across its legs, drawing a thick, red line across the air that banished the darkness immediately surrounding it. " _Be!_ " The monster roars, trying to move out of range, and he moves with it, slicing the blade through the air in intricate patterns. " _Gone!_ "

The design stretches taught, a massive rune similar to those Grimm had been instructing early in their cooperation but embedded with smaller, more intricate glyphs. He stabs through it, right into the monster's heart. It screeches, the floor shaking and a few chimes falling to the ground, before bursting into hundreds of brilliant red spirographs. They hang in the air, suspended by nothing, before collecting into the Nightmare King's sword. The storm slowly parts. The darkness fades away.

 Rain falls down in a calm, steady beat, and lightning no longer lights up the sky. The ground below, once lit in hellfire, is now scorchless and dark. The King lays silent across the ground, a crumpled heap of what was once a smoldering beacon of anger and rage just a few short seconds before. He inhales, a quiet sound, shaky and hoarse, and it exhales in a sob, soft and dripping with pain. His hands curl up to cover his face, as if trying to shield his tears from the world, wings limp, body curled into a ball.

"She..." He relaxes his position and holds his sword in both hands, observing the ripples of rose gold flowing across the inlay. His Heart clenches, trying to beat, and he sighs, tucking the weapon beneath his cloak once more. "It probably means nothing at this point, and it's by no means an excuse for what he did, but when he made that plan, she had..." He exhales again. "She found him when he was young, before we could teach him many things. He was intrigued but incautious, and what she... what she did to him broke him in so many ways I couldn't fathom to understand or explain. He became obsessed with freeing her people and stopping her reign until it became a game." The Nightmare King finally turns to him. "When he met you, you were merely a pawn to him. And then, somewhere along the line, you became his King. And he realized he was playing a game of chess that had been rigged for eternity."

The King slowly, slowly, lifts his head, tears drenching his cheeks, his gaze just brimming with sorrow, with pain, with exhaustion. His shoulders shake as he pushes himself up, head still dipped down as stifled sobs spill free from his lips, hopeless to be stopped. He tries to keep his eyes on the Fundament, tries to keep himself from breaking down, but the shame of his anger causes him to close his eyes and look away. “I..I...” He can barely speak, and the sentence dies off before it can even form.

"I will not ask you to forgive him," the Nightmare King continues, similarly looking away, "but I will ask you to not conflate Enkay's deeds with Grimm's. Grimm... I don't believe he knows anything beyond Enkay's hand in your rebirth."

The King is silent again, but shakes his head. He silently raises a claw to point  towards the Fundament, a feeble attempt to convey what he wanted to say. His wings shook pathetically, and his figure was soaked from the rain.

The Nightmare King watches him, then waves a hand, dismissing the rain. A moment later, the rain returns, and he stares up at the clouds refusing his commands. Sighing softly, he walks up to the King and kneels in front of him, conjuring a red and black umbrella to hold over the both of them. "You were saying, my King?"

“...I...” His voice was hoarse, and he raises an arm to wipe away his tears, sniffling once, twice, finally seeming to chase away the sobs. “I...I’m...sorry...I’m sorry...”

He frowns, but not as harshly as he had in the past. "Why on earth would you be sorry?"

He blinks, as if taken aback, a sliver of shock appearing amongst the sadness that fell over his features. “I...” He hesitates, his feelings seeming to collide in ways that felt sour, that felt strange and conflicting and _awful_ , and he wasn’t sure how to make of it. “..For...grabbing you...Losing my temper...I...I shouldn’t have...” He trails off, meekly.

The Nightmare King raises a brow. "I wasn't kidding when I said you should be mad at me for more than one thing. I more than deserve it." He frowns again and looks aside. "You didn't do much anyways. Hardly left a scratch."

He nods softly, then lets out a shaky sigh, lifting a hand to wipe away more tears that come. He says nothing more.

"If we..." He trails off for a moment. "If we had met when you knew Enkay... I'm not sure how I would have reacted. Well, I probably would have initiated contact, but... I want to say I would have told you to run for it, from everyone. And I would have been saying it as Enkay. I would have... looked like him, sounded like him. That's... how I work. Not only physically, but..." He sighs and looks down between them. "I don't know if that would have helped you, or kept you away from any of us, or her, but...."

The King is quiet for a moment, but he nods softly in understanding. “I’m not sure...if I would have listened...Depends on when you would’ve told me...If it was at the beginning, when my tongue had yet to speak common words...I do not know. I know for certain I...probably wouldn’t have listened by the time I fell in love with him...Maybe I would’ve been more cautious. Maybe I wouldn’t have....I suppose it’s...in the past now...”

"I suppose what matters more is the present, but it doesn't do well to forget the past." His frown deepens for a moment. "I suppose dwelling on it isn't a good idea either. Something both of us have in common...." He exhales heavily and rubs his face. "Use the Void. Deal with Radiance. Save your people. Forget about us if you have to."

“...Of course...” He nods softly, letting out a sigh. He shivers idly against the cold, but it’s clear he’s trying to keep it to himself, looking away once, twice, before looking back. “Is there anything else you want to say?”

"Hm." He thinks for a minute. "You should make your own umbrella some day. I'd offer mine, but... it'd dissipate within an hour. And a heater. It's bloody cold all the way up here." He shudders. "I have no clue how you stand it."

That gets a weak chuckle out of the King, tilting his head a bit. “I’m not sure myself. Admittedly, the rain is rather frigid, but it shouldn’t be that much of a bother. After all, this is my mind.”

"Ah. The mind is a fickle thing. Never does exactly as you tell it." He offers him a hand, smiling ever so slightly.

“I suppose you would know, wouldn’t you?” He reaches out to take said hand, his smile coming a bit more pronounced.

"I'm sure I only know half of it." The Nightmare King pulls him upright, his hand remarkably warm against the King's soaked shell. He frowns again, squeezing his hand lightly. "The... nightmare I dispatched...."

The King stares, his expression falling into not of sadness or anger, but just plain exhaustion. He sighs, idly threading his fingers through the Nightmare King’s own. “...I imagine it took some shape or form?”

"It did, but..." He looks away and coughs into his shoulder. "I don't necessarily want to talk about it, but rather that... sometimes it happens to us as well. And a method we take to... lessen the blow is to... talk to someone about it. You don't have to," he quickly adds. "It works for most of us. Grimm has Brumm. Enkay spoke mostly with Divine. But for us, talking and venting takes the power from the nightmare. Thinking so heavily on something is what gives it form in the mind, so if you can find a way to... lessen the flow of thought, or diminish how much power you give it..."

The King stares for a moment, but after a sparse second of silence, he nods. “I...I understand.”

He nods in return, not quite meeting his eyes. "I... believe that is everything. Unless you have more questions."

“No...I don’t believe so...” He hesitates for a moment, a long, long moment, before he lets out a sigh, giving the Nightmare King’s hand a squeeze. “...I wish I would’ve known your struggles. Perhaps we wouldn’t have gotten off of such a wrong foot.”

"All of us are rather closed off, in one way or another," he admits. "Someone once told us is was out of self-preservation."

“Who, exactly?” He tilts his head a bit.

"Oh, erm. Someone." He looks away again. "I doubt they're around now. It's been... Actually, how long _has_ it been?" He raises a brow at himself. "Must've been over a million years. Can't quite recall."

“I see...Interesting.” He looks curious, but shakes his head. “A tale for another time, I suppose. How exactly do I...?”

"All you need do is dismiss me." The Nightmare King gives him one of those small smiles again.

“Well...” He gives his hand another squeeze. “...You’re dismissed.”

"Farewell, friend," are the only words to fall from his lips, his head inclining as he raises their joined hands, before the construct of the temple winks out of existence to be replaced with the dim cavern of the Seer's home.

The King blinks once, twice, before slowly sitting up from where he laid, hands slowly curling up to rest on his shoulders, letting out a sigh. He feels a hand come to rest on his shoulder, followed by arms wrapping around him from behind. “Ohh, my Wyrm! Are you alright? What happened in there?! I could...I could feel you and you-!”

“I’m fine.” The King’s voice is as smooth and deep as ever, and he lets his eyes close again. “..I’m perfectly fine..”

Brumm leans forward from the other side of the circle and shakes Grimm's shoulder. "Master? Can you hear me, Master?"

"Hhhmm... sssll..." He curls for a moment, then stretches completely straight, arms and legs knocking over candles.

"Master," Brumm sighs.

Grimm doesn't respond.

The King glances at Grimm for a moment, but turns away, looking towards the Seer. “How long were we asleep?”

She shrugs lightly. "Not long. Perhaps ten, twenty minutes. Nothing longer."

“Hmm...” The King moves to grab his robes, standing up as he proceeds to fit them back on, letting out a sigh. “...Brumm, can I ask something of you?”

"Perhaps," he says shortly, shaking Grimm's shoulder again.

"Nno, _you're_ a... bsss-y ol'... dork."

“...I need you to find Enkay’s old musical sheets and give them to me.”

He pauses and looks up at the King, slow, tense. "Hrmm..." A frown creases his face behind his mask.

“...I know Grimm tried to burn them. I know he...he refuses to let go of what happened. If I have those sheets, I know I can help him.”

Brumm straightens at that, careful not to disturb the sleeping god. "The Master did not..." He swallows roughly, and looks back to Grimm. "I... I see..."

The King is silent, waiting for a response. The Seer, watching, shivers as a chill creeps down her spine.

"...Master Grimm plans to send care packages to your people. I will..." He hesitates, arms twitching. "I will address one to the Lady Monomon."

“Thank you, Brumm. I appreciate this.” He nods, before turning to the Seer. “I also give you my thanks for going out of your way to conduct the ritual. It’s been...most enlightening..” He nods again.

She bows her head. "All in-"

"Go back to _your_ room." Grimm flops over and Brumm narrowly catches an arm. He curls toward him and snores loudly.

"...All in a day's work." She raises a brow at the two. "Will he be alright?"

"Mrm." Brumm gathers the Nightmare King in his arms and stands. "He is easily put to sleep, but often restless regardless."

The Lady chortles to herself behind one of her hands. “Oh, that’s just adorable.” 

The King glances towards Brumm, brow raising slightly. “Do you need assistance taking him back to the camp?”

"No." He shifts Grimm, who murmurs unintelligibly again. "It's best I go alone. Work to be done."

“Hmm...Very well.” He nods once, before turning towards his Lady, holding out a hand. “Perhaps it is best that we go home, my Root.”

"Of course, my dear. You must be exhausted." She takes his hand again and stands, helping him to his feet. She brings one hand to his cheek, stroking gently there.

He tilts his head slightly into the touch, his lips turning up in a smile. “Heh...I suppose I might be...” He reaches up to take that hand in his own, giving it a squeeze, but turns to look for Brumm, a query on his lips, but freezes when he finds that...he is no longer there. He frowns, heavily confused. “..H...How did he...?”

"Huh?" The White Lady follows his line of sight and blinks at the empty space where Brumm had been. "Grimm couldn't have teleported while asleep, right?"

"I wouldn't sell the Nightmare King's lieutenant short if I were you." The Seer stands from collecting a handful of candles. "I doubt he could teleport as well as his Master, but... you never know."

The King is silent for a moment, but then he nods softly.  “I will keep a note of that.” He turns to face the Seer. “Is there anything else that you wish to tell us? Or shall we be on our way?”

"Oh, no, I won't keep you any longer. Although..." She looks up at about a dozen burst dreamcatchers. "I do hope you're in good graces with the Nightmare King after all that."

He doesn’t answer for a moment, but then nods softly. “We came to a...understanding.” 

The Lady lets out a soft huff. “I certainly hope so; I could still feel everything you felt in there, and it was quite upsetting.” 

“I assure you, dearest, I am fine. Things simply got...heated.”

"I'm surprised they agreed to a one-on-one in the first place." She stoops to grab the remaining candles. "Or even considered it possible. Unless you told them about me?"

“I told _Grimm_ about you. I imagine he must’ve...passed the knowledge somehow.” He shrugs idly. “To be fair, I’m still a bit unsure as to how it all works.”

"Haven't the foggiest, my King." She sets more candles in their rightful place. "Everything I've ever heard about it is pure rumor. You'd know more than I do."

“I suppose.” He lets out a sigh. “Frankly, after the day I’ve had, I’d rather not think about any of it right now. So, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to head back to my Palace.”

"Of course, my King. I'll be here if you require my services again."

"Oh, dear, you still have..." The White Lady gently cups his face and rubs a thumb against his forehead. "There. All good."

He blinks, having honestly forgotten that he had any paint on him at all. He gives her a soft smile, chuckling. “Thank you, my Root.” He reaches up to take her hand in his own, holding it as the two make their way out of the cavern.

"Are you _sure_ everything was fine in there?" She gives him a worried look. "Even Brumm was getting antsy."

He hesitates, for a moment, but then sighs. “I’d rather not discuss it until we get back to the Palace. It’s...complicated.”

"Alright..." She side-eyes him. "But I want to hear everything."

“...You will, my dear.” He squeezes her hand. “You will.”

••••

The White Lady strides down the halls of the Palace largely ignoring the few aides she passed while heading to her desired location. She recognized a few of them, and during any other time would have gladly returned a smile or some other kind gesture of acknowledgement, but she was on a mission that for once did not involve City politics, treason, or judicial business.  Said mission involved two plates of piping hot food, and every bug who saw her holding them understood precisely how dire the situation was. Well, they thought they understood. They were partially correct.

All the aides knew how poorly the King ate, and the Queen was going to put a stop to it.

The King himself was currently locked up in his workshop, the dim lighting of the room only being combatted by the natural light his shell emitted, causing a strange glow that seemed both bright and dark all at the same time. He was currently staring down at the Void Heart charm in his hands, a thumb idly tracing over the hollow eye that seemed to be staring back at him, bright, so very similar to his own magic, but at the same time, not similar at all. It was almost unnerving, but at the same time, he couldn’t help but be so...fascinated by it. To think that he was using something he knew so very little about to save what he worked so very hard to achieve. It was enough to have him let out a sigh, setting the charm down to glance toward one of the many jars of Void that he had, picking it up in his claws, watching as it gently moves to mirror the placement of his hands. It was almost comforting, were it not for the knowledge that it took a deal of great magnitude to make sure that such a grave substance did not wish to destroy his body. 

“...I cannot wait any longer....It must happen now...”

"Don't you dare be working when I get in there." The White Lady's voice echoes down the hall, shortly followed by her footsteps. "All the aides are done asking questions and figuring out schedules for the next week."

The King blinks at the sound of his Lady’s voice, head turning to face the door, but after a moment, he simply gives in with a sigh, setting the jar down gently and getting up from his seat. It takes merely a brush of his hand for the door to open, watching as his lovely Root walks down towards him. “That’s very good to hear.” He sees the plates and lets himself chuckle. “Ah, you have dinner. Now I no longer have an excuse. Clever.”

"We _both_ have excuses, darling." She sets them on the table and embraces him, practically picking him up to give him a proper hug. "No one can bother the King and Queen when they're on a dinner date."

He lets out a soft yelp at the feeling of being picked up, but is quick to melt into the embrace, wrapping his arms as best he can around her shoulders, her neck, their foreheads pressing together, unable to resist letting out a soft, hearty chuckle. “Hahah, will you ever get bored of doing this? I must be at least a little heavy.”

"Not in the slightest, dear." She chuckles back, nuzzling him. "And no, I'll never get bored of this. Never."

“Not even a little?” He can’t help but pout a bit, though it was clearly meant to be teasing. “It’s awfully damaging to my reputation; how can any of my subjects take me seriously when they see me being hoisted around in my beloved’s arms?”

"Oh, let them talk." She holds him up higher, smile widening. "They're just jealous of us. And probably single."

That gets him to chuckle again, and he can’t help but press a kiss to her forehead. “You always know what to say to make me laugh.”

"Heheh." She pulls him closer and returns the kiss. "Only took me, what, three thousand years?"

“I almost want to say it took more than that.” He smiles more warmly, a hand coming up to stroke her cheek.

She leans into his touch and finds a seat near his desk, still holding him. "It feels like eternity, yes."

“I wish it was.” He smiles at the thought. “Sometimes I wonder what it would’ve been like were we to meet as what I used to be.”

"You as a Wyrm?" She hums. "I bet you were grouchy all the time. But you'd still like my gardening."

“Heheh...Of course I would.” He lets one hand trace along one of her roots. “How could I not? Your gardens are always the most beautiful. The most exquisite. Rivaled only by the Delicate Flowers of Ze’mer’s homeland.”

"Oh, that's not fair. They're cheating and you know it." She pouts for a moment, then giggles. "I guess that means I'm the better gardener, since I don't cheat."

“Of course, dear.” He chuckles, finally turning his head to glance down at the plates. “Would you care to put me down now so that I may eat? I drank tea earlier but that was in my dream so I don’t think that counts as real food.”

"Definitely not." She sets him in his chair and sidles up next to him. "I'm glad you have an appetite, though. You haven't been eating again."

“I know, I know. I’m sorry about that.” He lets out a sigh even as he picks up a fork and knife to start cutting at his food. “I’ve been...rather preoccupied. A lot of things have been on my mind lately.”

"I can only imagine." The White Lady frowns slightly, staring at both of their plates. "Sometimes I still find myself thinking this is all a nightmare, but... This is really happening. That doesn't mean you have to do it alone, though." She gently places a hand on his back.

He stops for a moment, then finally sets his utensils down, moving to grab one of her hands to give it a squeeze. “I know I won’t. Because I’ve made a decision. You deserve to know everything.”

She smiles patiently, tightening her hand around his, and nods. "Like old times? When we got this place up and running?"

“Just like old times. Working together, side by side.” He smiles softly, remembering all those years of quiet building, tunneling, crafting, planning. The treaties, agreements, blueprints, construction, everything.

"That sounds wonderful." She leans against him. "You're going to have to catch me up on quite a lot, though."

He sighs softly, and slowly moves to pick up the Void Heart charm, holding it up for her to see. “Well...I suppose we can start with this. I found this in the middle of Grimm’s tent, submerged in vines, at the foot of an ancient statue. The Nightmare King calls this the Void Heart. He doesn’t know exactly what it does, nor do I, but it is said to be a creation, spawned by the Shade Lord during a deal they once made. The Nightmare King allowed me to keep it, for he believes that it may aid me in what I plan to do.”

"Oh." She gingerly lifts a finger to touch it, blinking at the smoothness of it. "It looks like just another charm, but... it does have a certain air to it...." She turns her gaze to him. "You got this while we were looking for you, didn't you? Grimm said you could have been led into the _walls_ of the tent, which didn't make any sense, but..."

“Yes...I...” He hesitates, but shakes his head. He needed to tell her _everything_. “...I saw Enkay. I saw him. He was there, bleeding and deformed and...I followed him into the tent. He led me to the statue. Led me to the Void Heart.”

"Bleeding and...? Oh my..." She swallows, but takes a breath and narrows her eyes. " _The_ statue?"

“The...The statue of the Nightmare King. The Fundament, as they call him. There were many statues in there, acting as memorials to the past incarnations, along with paintings, tapestries. E..Enkay had one.”

Her eyes widen and she smiles softly. "What was it like?"

He can’t help but smile back, and he tries to resist the urge to let the tears well into his eyes. “It was beautiful...He looked like how he always did when introducing one of his shows. He had that staff of his he used to use on stage. There was...There was me, in the background, along with a serpent curled around the mountains...”

She threads their fingers together, squeezing gently. "I always thought you were rather important to him. He did so much for you..."

“I know...He risked so much for me...Risked so much more than I realized..” He can’t help but let a tear slip out.

"It's alright, darling." Her hand cups his face and brushes the tear away. "You can let it out."

“...My Root...” He hesitates again, but clenches his fists, knowing he couldn’t let the secret lie anymore. He takes a moment to just nuzzle into her palm, before he lifts his head. “...There’s something you need to know about Enkay...”

She blinks at him, confused by the serious look in his eyes. "Okay. What is it?"

He goes quiet for a moment. “...When Radiance found me, she claimed I had simply appeared from the nothingness, that the death of my old self and my sudden rebirth was an event of holy circumstance, completely and utterly unintentional. That was a lie. My rebirth, my renewal, the form you know as me now, it was all premeditated, by Enkay himself.”

Her fingers slacken around his hand as she stares at him. "He... Enkay... How could he have...? I don't... understand..."

“From what he’s told me when I confronted him, he found my form as a Drake out in the Wastelands, convinced it that living a life of eternity and destruction was not worth the nothingness of death, and that it should choose to become something more. I suppose his words influenced it enough to take on his advice; it died at the edge of Hallownest’s territory, and from there, I was created. Created by Enkay....for the Radiance.”

"F-for..." Her eyes widen, breath barely whistling out of her. "Why would he...?"

He gives her hands a gentle squeeze. “Because he wanted to escape from her, from her eyes, her watch, everything  _about_ her. He despised her rule, her callous control over the minds of her subjects, and most of all, her obsession with him. So, in a last ditch effort to finally shift her focus away from him, from his clan and from the Heart, he made me, to become her new toy, her new obsession, her new...plaything..” He sighs, a thumb idly rubbing at her knuckles. “...That was the plan, at first. But then, it changed. It changed because....he fell in love with me.”

"I..." She stares, then covers his hand with her other, holding him tightly. Her eyes move to their hands. "And he never told you? Enkay? He never told you anything? He left it to..."

“No, no...He did tell me, when I had grown suspicious enough about all the circumstances. It was a very painful confrontation, but it needed to be done.” He sighs again. “...He wasn’t innocent, my dear. None of them are. Not Enkay, not the Nightmare King...Not even Grimm.”

"No one's ever completely innocent," she murmurs, going quiet for a moment. "I knew of the Nightmare King, of Enkay, before you came. I had been warned of them. But I would never have..." She closes her eyes and shakes her head. "What about Grimm? He's not innocent? What do you mean by that?"

“...He had a tapestry too, as well as a statue. In the hands of the statue was a..a weapon, rusted old, covered in these..ribbons...The statue had two faces, one smiling, one filled with rage. When I looked upon the painting...” He hesitates again, but manages to speak, voice wobbling slightly as a bitter poison causes his heart to clench. “...He was a killer. A destroyer. The Nightmare King told me himself when he found me in there. He went on rampage after rampage, _butchering_ entire cities and settlements all in the name of his father. Killing those who had wronged the clan. Those in the clan took desperate measures to erase Hallownest from it’s memory, just to ensure he never went after it.” He squeezes down on his Lady’s hands. “..That’s why he never came back. He didn’t know we were there. He would’ve tried to kill us otherwise.”

The White Lady watches him, inspects his face for any trace of exaggeration or deceit, looks into their empathic bond for any ounce of a lie. A small, bitter laugh fell from her lips and she shakes her head, looking away to hide tears building in her eyes. "He... he wouldn't. There's no reason he would... Grimm..." Her hands finally squeeze his. "He barely seems like he can hurt a fly. Sure, he seems more serious, but..."

“..I didn’t suspect him of anything either...But..” A tear falls down his cheek. “...I know of what I saw. Of what Enkay showed me, of what the Fundament told me....It is true...But by Gods, I wish it wasn’t..”

"How could he blame us for what she did?" She shakes slightly, a spark of anger traveling between them. "And he refuses to even look at his parent's memories. Does he even know how much Enkay despised killing?"

The King shakes his head, lifting a hand to wipe away a tear that goes down her cheek. “He doesn’t know. He doesn’t. He refuses to remember Enkay’s memories, refuses to learn _any_ of the memories from the Heart. The Fundament believes that this will end up killing him, and if he dies prematurely, the Ritual may not be fulfilled, and that could mean the end of the Heart. That’s what the Fundament said. That’s why I asked for copies of Enkay’s music. He asked me to aid in having Grimm remember.”

"And music will help?" She frowns, doubtful. "How will we even get him to listen to it?"

“Simple. I will play it.” He lets a soft, bittersweet smile curve up his lips. “I learned how to play a few instruments, remember?”

She frowns for a moment more, then sighs and looks away, a softer look on her face. "Yes, dear. You were rather excellent on the harp."

He frowns, feeling her displeasure, her sadness, her betrayal, and sighs, moving up out of his chair to climb into her lap, hugging her close, as best he can. “..I know, my Root, I know...Let it out.”

"It's been ages since you've played." She brings a hand to his back, holding him there. "And now you want to play for someone who wanted us dead? Who killed who knows how many... I still don't understand why he...." She lets out a rougher breath, holding back the tears threatening to overflow.

“He was grieving...I don’t know what exactly he saw, or how he survived, but he saw Enkay’s death. He saw it, and that must’ve made him spiral into anger, into rage. He’s mentioned several times over how lands are not friendly to his clan, how they tend to...lash out, and attack him. He must have decided taking revenge on them was the best step to take.”

She's silent for a moment after, nuzzling the spires of his crown gently. Another breath leaves her and she rubs the tears from her face. "How confusing a position Enkay put us in. Pulling us from her clutches only for us to pull Grimm from his own...." She shakes her head and pulls the King closer, only managing to rub their cheeks together. "It doesn't make sense. If he truly wanted to run away from her, why would he ever come back?"

“...Because he didn’t want me to be alone.” His eyes close.

She pauses and, after a moment, laughs a little. "Sounds like Enkay." More silence. "Is there anything else?"

“...Yes, but it’s more to do with what we need to do next. We need to begin work on the Void, my dear.” He nuzzles against her cheek, idly trying to provide comfort.

"Mm, I see." She lets him nuzzle her for a moment, basking in the familiarity of it. "Do we have to start tonight? We've both been working endlessly since the beginning of this."

“...No, no...Not tonight...” He’s silent for a moment. He taps a finger again and again on her side. “....But can I just-”

"Honey, no." She tilts his head up to look him in the eyes. "You've been doing so much, and a lot just happened. Trust me, you and I will both be a lot better after some time to ourselves and some time to think. And you still have to finish eating."

He can’t help but huff a bit, looking a touch upset. “I won’t start working _now_. I just...I just want to go over the plan I have to start with.”

"Hmm...." She watches him, eyes narrowed, but gives in. "Alright. But you're going over it with me, not in your own mind, which I know you love to do."

He can’t help but smile, going her cheek a quick kiss, sliding out of her lap to stand, though as he turns his back, the Lady can feel his amusement quickly draining away into something that was both firm and melancholic, all at the same time, a bitter pill that he was trying to swallow and failing to keep it contained. He slowly walks over to a cabinet that contains a drawer, and he pulls it out, staring down into its contents for a moment before finally lifting it up. He turns it for his Lady to see. 

It’s a mask, small, about the size of a dinner plate, perfectly circular in shape, crafted from polished wood, yet to be painted, but the holes for the eyes are still present. The King walks over to her, handing it over to her. “..I plan to use this to see if this can act as a container for the Void. I might add on certain features if the first test is unsuccessful, but for now, I’m keeping it as blank as I can.” He smiles sadly.

The Queen takes the mask with delicate fingers, looking it over and rubbing a thumb over its smooth face. She could almost imagine a bug wearing it, once it was finished, of course, and Monomon's young child came back to mind. Quirrel had a similar mask, didn't he? Or was it that this mask was merely similar to a pillbugs? She looks up at him and returns the smile, feeling the tears she had left unshed return. "Blank is... probably for the best, yes."

The King’s own tears well up in his eyes, and he slides back into her lap. “...I’m sorry that I have to use it for such a purpose but...It’s the best I can do. It’s the only way I can test what works with the Void without it being corrupted beyond repair.” He turns slightly to pick up the Void Heart, holding it in his lower pair of hands, tracing it over with a thumb.

The Queen turns the mask over in her hands. "What would you be testing, exactly?" She had an idea, but she wanted to hear it from him. Although... "What do you mean by 'corrupted'?"

“Ah.” The King pauses, and he winces a bit. “..I may have forgotten to tell you that.” He lets out a sigh, and points to one of the jars of Void. “The day before the attempted coup, Grimm had teleported away to visit his clan, who were setting up in the Howling Cliffs. I had seen that he left behind some ashes of his, residue from his flames, and I threw it into one of my jars to see what would happen.” He sighs again, remembering the fight that had occurred. “The day _after_ the coup, Grimm had showed up and demanded me to remove the ashes. When I opened it, the Void escaped, and it appears on contact with the ashes, it had...mutated, assimilated to the godlike energy within them. It...” He hesitates. “...It looked like his Child. Not _entirely_ , but...close enough. I only realized it when I saw the little one in the Troupe grounds.”

"It looked like his...?" She swallows and takes a breath. "I can... only imagine that he didn't like that. What happened to it afterward?"

The King is quiet for a moment. “..Dead. He killed it.”

"He-" She straightens, the tendrils around her head curling in on themselves. "Oh my... I... I can't imagine..."

“...I promised him I would never do such a thing again, and I don’t intend to do so. But that event showed me something that I had not known of the Void. It can mutate, it can take on the attributes of Gods depending on what’s put into it, and if we plan to create a method to allow the Void to become solid, but still retain it’s natural form, that means we must be _careful_  about how we handle the Void from now on. It means we have to be careful on what we add in.”

"Definitely." She gives the mask another look and sighs, setting it on the table. "Do you think that time could have been a factor? You said it only had a day to... mix."

“Perhaps...Perhaps...” He narrows his eyes a bit, his melancholy already melting away into a concentrated intensity, the cogs in his mind already starting to run. “But time is not exactly a factor we have...But time affecting the mutation process is quite the hypothesis...”

"Grimm has bought us time, darling." She pulls him close again, rubbing his sides. "We shouldn't squander it, of course, but the whole point of his torches is to give us the time we need to work this out."

“Hrmmm...” He huffs but doesn’t disagree, looking back down at the Void Heart charm. “...I suppose I can start with figuring out what this is supposed to do.” He spreads his robes apart just enough to expose his chest, glancing down at the Charm, eyes narrowing. He rubs a thumb around the surface once more before he moves to place it on his chest.

It clicks into place where he had placed it, a strange, eerie face peeking out from his shell. The Lady pushes him back a step for her to look and hums under her breath.  "I never thought you'd wear a Charm in your life, dear. Do you feel any different?"

The King blinks once, twice, lifting his hands up to clench and unclench his hands, letting a white glow flow through his claws. “..No, not really...My skin feels a bit more...tingly, I suppose, but other than that...Nothing.”

She chuckles at the description, mirth returning to her crystal blue eyes. "Tingly. A charm that makes you _tingly_. Adorable."

He flushes a bit, crossing his arms indignantly. “Well _how else_ could I describe it?!”

She laughs, boisterous and loud, something this room hadn't heard in... the King couldn't quite place a date. "I don't know, I don't know. Merely teasing, sweetheart." She bends her head down to nuzzle his forehead.

“Teasing is all you seem to do these days. Especially this morning.” He huffs and turns his head away, arms folded against his chest. “Such undignified behavior.”

She tries to stifle another laugh, but it comes out in broken, uncontainable gasps. "Please, I could do much worse and you know it."

“You _have_ done worse! On a near monthly basis I might add!” He flushes even harder and turns back around to shove a claw at her chest, poking it accusingly as his voice raises in volume. “Need I remind you of all your-your.... _fits_?! I practically have to shove you out of the Palace in order to make sure you don’t stop me from my work the whole time!”

"Oh, like you don't have your own 'fits.'" She air quotes with the hand not hiding her smirk. "Your last one was quite impeccable, I must say."

“...That...I was under very high stress at the time.” His face goes bright red and he looks away in a stubborn fashion.

"Of course." She chuckles a little more, getting the last of it out, and gently pulls him close again, the wickedness in her face giving way to innocence. "Well, either way, we should finish our meals and do something relaxing, yeah?"

“Yes, yes...Of course.” He shakes his head slightly, letting out a sigh. “It’s felt like so long since we’ve done anything like this...”

"It definitely does, darling." She kisses his cheek and nuzzles him lightly. "Definitely."

••••••

The Nightmare King had been in the Pale King’s mind for less than 10 minutes, at least to him, and yet such a creature had already managed to fascinate him, as well as stupefy him, in that short amount of time. It was intriguing, very much so. It was also bothersome, in a way. Nothing much ever really fascinated him anymore, and while it was pleasant to see that the world was still able to deliver such things upon a being as old as him, it also meant that once he figured it out, it no longer became a point of inquiry, of interest, of obsession. 

There was something ancient dwelling beneath the deepest pits of the King’s subconscious, a creature lost to time, a mind long gone, memories dead and rotting, instincts suppressed and diluted by sapience and awareness, doomed to wallow in silence forever. And he could feel them. The Fundament could feel it all. What disturbed him was how _familiar_ it all felt.

There are few things that are familiar to him in this day and age: his other selves, the souls of their outer kin, and the very, _very_ few things which had managed to stay the same across the planet. There are no more familiar faces from his time, no gods made themselves known, and the first and only established _place_ was the Wilderbeez Forest to the north. And yet this King, the Pale King, the Wyrm, a god who had only been alive for a few thousand years, barely older than Grimm, could bring that feeling of familiarity to him. The Pale King. The Wyrm.

"Hmm."

He reclines further in his seat - more of a throne than a seat, but he didn't think much of it - and plucks at the string attached to that word. Wyrm. He had known wyrms in his time. Drakes, dragons, wyrms. There were so many names for them. But it wasn't possible for a wyrm to live as long as a proper god, was it? Granted, most were hunted....

He couldn’t help but scowl in displeasure at the memories the train of thought brings. The Gods often had a history of butchering those beautiful serpents, almost as much as they slaughtered each other, wanton acts of hopeless violence and barbarism that either ended in corpses or splits. Messy, messy times, for all kinds of life, to be sure, but the Wyrms...The Wyrms suffered the most. They always have. He can’t remember a time when they weren’t in peril, dying, or already dead, and the reason for their purge, their plight, their maddening genocide, no matter how far or hard he searched, could never make itself known to him. It was a constant thorn in his side, ignorable, until it was given a poke and driven deeper in. 

He taps a talon against his cheek absentmindedly, unable to get the image of the King’s hand wrapped around his own out of his mind. The image of that pale, shining face, stricken with tears as the metaphorical storm soak him to the bone, all the while the elusive figure of the great beast he had once been rears it’s head in the darkness beyond. So different, those two creatures, so alien to each other, one alive and struggling, the other dead and rotting, and yet they were all one and the same. It was strange. It was beautiful. It was...familiar. 

He wondered, vaguely, how exactly the Dragon that would come to be the God and King, died.

Enkay had never asked, never been curious enough to figure out himself. More than likely out of guilt. One of the more sympathetic incarnations, it only made sense that he would feel somehow responsible for the death of that great Drake. But he was also responsible for its continued life, its new form. The Nightmare King wondered, for a moment, if some of that lingering guilt was still pushing the Current. It wasn't unheard of for incarnations to be influenced by "forgotten" memories. But that even beckoned whether or not _Enkay_ had been influenced by some greater grief, perhaps even his, which he had refused to share over the millennia. The majority of his incarnations had been sympathetic toward the Wyrms, now that he thought of it. Enkay wasn't the first to consider helping them. He wouldn't be the last either, by the looks of it.

He couldn’t help but hum to himself in thought. He himself hadn’t exactly been all that keen on using a Wyrm as a proper candidate for his little plan; it had too many faults, too many assumptions, ones that could easily fail and result in nothing more than a dead Wyrm, one more to add to the growing pile, and even then, he wasn’t sure if Enkay would’ve stopped at the first failure. How many Wyrms would have to die in order to create the perfect toy for his sister to obsess over for all eternity? He didn’t want to think about it. That’s why he hid himself away, as far as he could, the moment Enkay had launched his plan into action, disregarding the warnings he had brought him. He supposed Enkay had simply gotten lucky; only one Wyrm had died, and there it stood, the little pawn that one day became the monarch. 

...He never did find out what the Wyrm looked like.

He never had the stomach for it, or the overwhelming desire to know. Why mourn over the dead, especially when the dead was still technically alive? Death simply was, and you couldn't fight it. Maybe he had seen too much of it. Maybe he had become jaded in that way.

_I do not care if you are Death. I do not care if you once lived in a world that is long bereft of things you claim to have seen! It changes nothing!_

Such strange words from another god. To not care of another's domain... To merely consider morals.... While the words were spoken in anger, he couldn't help but admit the truth in them. The slightest bit of that rebuke hits him again and he glowers at the shame it inspires. It was a _familiar_ shame, but he couldn't recall where it was coming from. Who, _who_ had he known to say such things? Who had he _let_ say such things about _himself?_

His eyes narrow slightly even more. Perhaps that was another reason to let himself indulge in his fascination of this odd little King. Only a few thousand years old, born to become a puppet to the old, dead Light, and yet now, had grown to be something far more than what he was meant to be. Growth, change, a pyre of emotion and morality and _will_ , he could sense it all, brewing beneath the surface of that flawless, bright white shell. Did this power, this strength, come from the resolve of his old mind, the ancient leviathan that once stood against the notion of time and was meant to live on eternally, in a mimicry of his own celestial body? Or did it come from the experience of being born into the world straight from the maw of a being that once was himself, and learn of the world through eyes he could not perceive before? 

It was intriguing, it was fascinating, and by all the Gods, something about it just itched at his shell like a foul parasite, and it was starting to grow irksome. He could feel it, the claw resting on the smooth base of the thorn, steadily pushing it deeper, deeper, deeper still, into the flesh of his side, and it was enough to make a hand clench into a fist. He needed to make this worthless pondering cease. It would be worth nothing in the end.

He contemplates his next actions for a moment and then stands, striding across a long, corridor-esque passage between bookshelves and neatly kept desks and out through a silver-gilt, arched door. If he wanted to know more about the Pale King, then Enkay was the person to go to. And if he wanted to know more about a certain Wyrm, Enkay would be able to provide the information. But how to broach the topic? It wasn't usual for him to knock on other's doors. Quite the opposite was the usual, in fact. And the King was and still is quite the sore spot for Enkay....

He shook his head, softly. It wasn’t like Enkay would refuse to give up any information, not when he had merely wanted to satisfy a few curiosities. The spirits dwelling within the Heart could all sense his intentions, his feelings, as he to them, so he was certain that Enkay would soon become aware of his visit. He just hoped that the man would be able to reel in his tendencies for the dramatic flair, as he personally did not feel quite in the mood for jovial triviality.

After some time of walking down black halls, carpeted and accented in the traditional shades of red, he stops in front of a simple double door with white inlay. He knocks at the door. "Enkay? Could I have a moment?"

There's a small sound of shuffling, and perhaps a few muttered words, and then the door opens, Enkay peering at him with busy looking eyes and a quill in one hand and barely visible ink stains on his other. "You want to talk?"

He takes a moment to glance down toward Enkay’s hand, the one that contains the quill, before he glances back up towards his face, nodding. “Indeed....I assume you’re writing another song? A poem?”

"Full symphony, actually." He grins and steps back, revealing a room coated in hanging fabrics, beads, crystals, intricate little lamp-like structures holding small embers. Nests of pillows and blankets scatter about, especially toward a depression off to one corner of the room, near a tall window looking out into an eerie red sky. Enkay leaves the door open, walking toward a nearby desk cluttered with papers and a dozen differently colored ink bottles. He prints a few notes onto one of the papers. "Apologies if I seem a bit... spacey. Lots on the mind at the moment."

“I can tell. Not exactly a lot of room to step in here.” Despite his words, the Fundament comes walking in, daintily stepping around every piece of paper that still lays strewn about the floor. He turns towards Enkay, before letting out a sigh as the door closes behind him. “...Enkay. I...I need to know about the Wyrm. Not the Pale King. The being that came before him.”

"What?" A frown creases his brow and he looks up, the chains linking his horns clinking together. He doesn't look particularly upset, but his momentary silence tells otherwise. His eyes dart away, but he doesn't return to his music. "You've never asked about the Wyrm before. Why now?"

The Nightmare King is silent for a moment, not entirely sure what to say. “...Something about the Pale King seems...familiar. It’s strange, odd, and I want to figure out why that is. I sensed something in his mind, in the part that isn’t himself. The part that’s the Wyrm. The part that’s dead. I need to see the Wyrm. I need to see it, alive.”

"I..." Enkay frowns a bit more, but shrugs to himself and nods. "Alright. The window is usually where I..." He gestures and walks toward the recessed area of the room, the Nightmare King trailing behind him. "I suppose I'll show you the first time I met him.... Let's see..."

The Fundament kept silent as he watched, as he waited, his hands silently curling into fists at his sides. Now, his fascination would be gone. Now, he could pull the thorn out.

The red of the sky fades into static as Enkay raises a hand, making cyclical gestures until images begin flashing across the panes. He hums, shaking his head, and makes the images swirl by faster, flicking his fingers. After a moment, he slows, sorting through images of a maze-like canyon. A sort of precipice-like cliff comes into view, a beautiful view of the worn rock walls seen at some middle height. Enkay makes another noise and points, letting the image play out slowly, watching as the white ground of the canyon floor shifts, and then as a massive, pointed maw raises from below. It raises and raises, until it's craning down above them, dozens of eyes blinking from between and around the spires of its mouth.

Enkay freezes the frame. "That's him."

The Nightmare King walks just an inch closer to the window, leaning in to try and get a more precise look. It’s only when he sees the maw of the beast, the pure, brilliant white sheen of massive scales, does it finally click. He feels every part of his body, from the tips of his horns to his feet freeze, an icy chill racing over his skin and leaving him breathless, his eyes going wide and his knees locking into place from where he stood. His hand trembles as it reaches out to touch Enkay’s shoulder, grips it in an effort to steady himself, the growing monsoon of his own emotions as they swell, swell, _swell_ up within him as if the very Heart itself was about to burst apart. 

Enkay couldn’t help but blink, turning his head to look towards the Fundament, shock and confusion written as plain as day on his face. “...Are you alright?”

"It can't be...." His grip on Enkay's shoulder tightens for a moment, and Enkay gently takes his hand in both of his. It was impossible. There was no way this Wyrm was the same one from all those years ago. But the scales were the same, and the eyes as well, and the shape of the mouth - the crown.... He lets out a small laugh, blinking away the feeling of tears pricking his eyes. "To think after all this time I refused to even _glance_ at this...."

“...What is it? What’s wrong?” Enkay’s face turns into that of a concerned frown, and his other hand drifts up to wipe away a tear that actually manages to slide down his cheek. “I...I’ve never seen you like this...”

"I..." He laughs again and looks down, taking a small breath. A smile is on his face the entire time. "This is... I'm merely very... surprised. But in a good way." He rubs at his eye. "Enkay, that Wyrm... I..." How could he even say this? What words could make it real?

Enkay’s eyes flick to the frozen picture on the screen, of the leviathan that towered over the speck amongst the canyon that was him and his Troupe. The monster that would become his precious King, the slayer of the Light, and ruler of the eternal kingdom. He felt something in his chest flutter ever so slightly, and he looks back towards the Fundament. “...Did you...know the Wyrm? Did...Did you....” He hesitates. “....love them?”

"Love them?" He laughs and shakes his head, considering taking a seat to explain this all, but merely shaking his head again. "No, no. No. I knew them when I was very young. _Very_ young. I tried stabbing his eyes out, _dear lord_." The Nightmare King can't help but laugh again, covering his face and shaking his head. "Oh, I was so naive, so foolish. Hot headed, paranoid, other things. Eugh." He lowers his hands, an almost nostalgic look on his face. "I was so young...."

Enkay can’t help but ponder to himself, quietly, the sheer idea of the Nightmare King as an actual physical entity, a being of flesh and blood, rather than a spirit made manifest within an infernal Heart. He lets his eyes linger on the image of the Wyrm’s towering form once more, and slowly lets himself smile, memories slowly moving back into the forefront of his mind. “...He must have been very important to you...I had no idea. To think that this one Wyrm eventually became my King.” He can’t help but chuckle. “Hopefully that doesn’t make anything awkward.”

"Eugh, it definitely is." Some of the amusement fades, but there's something lingering in his eyes that beats away the typical coldness that festers there. At least temporarily. "I doubt the King remembers, but Grimm will have to pass along my apologies to him. He helped me when I didn't even know I needed him, and.... Well..."

“I see.” Enkay nods softly, leaning back against a wall and letting out a small sigh. “Amazing how small this world really feels sometimes.” He’s quiet for a moment. “Well, now that you know...What does this mean?”

"I... suppose I'll have to tell Grimm, and Grimm will have to tell the King." He rubs the back of his neck. "I should probably do that before he wakes up."

"Yes, Grimm..." Enkay looks aside for a moment, scuffing their foot against the ground. "You were... I don't mean to be rude, but you were rather harsh with him earlier."

The Nightmare King frowns at him. "He can't pretend to be a child any longer. You know he has to accept the responsibility of the Heart."

"I know, I know." They sigh and finally look him in the eye. "And I know he isn't particularly the nicest with you either, and he's always been rebellious, but.... I don't think we're going about this the right way. I mean, he's dealing with quite a lot right now. He's meeting people _I_ knew. Perhaps if we let him alone for a little, give him some more autonomy, he'll stumble onto the memories more... naturally."

The Nightmare King is silent for a moment, before his face contorts in a small scowl. “No...No, it can’t wait. It can’t. He’s messing with the will of the Radiance by helping out the Pale King, by aiding him to cease the infection. He has no idea who she is, not really. He has no idea what to expect, what to think, anything. You know her, _we_ know her, and because he’s shut us out, he knows _nothing_. She could kill him. I don’t know how or when, but I know that if she gets any ideas, he will most likely end up dead.”

"But because he's shut us out," Enkay emphasizes, walking toward him again, "we don't know what he knows. I know he's found some of my notes, and Brumm isn't the type to let him wander into this kind of mess without an idea of the risks. I know it's not ideal, but forcing things with Grimm never ends well."

“Even when it means risking his life? When it means possibly letting him walk right into Her hands?” His claws clench, and the words of the King echo through his mind once again, their stinging, acidic hypocrisy not lost on him. “...I don’t want him to be caught. I don’t want to end right back where we tried to escape from.”

"I know... I know." Enkay runs a finger along his horn, fidgeting with one of the golden clasps there. "I merely... Grimm hasn't... ruined his room yet. Usually when he's in a bad mood, he does that, and..." He clenches his jaw, worry lacing his brow.

The Nightmare King lets out a sigh, a hand curling to drum his claws on his arm, mind buzzing in an almost frantic manner. “..So, what does that tell us?”

He says nothing for a moment, merely giving him on of his stubborn, protective looks. "You were too hard on him. I've known him since he was a Child. He makes himself bigger than he's supposed to be and bites when he's scared. And you-" He pinches between his eyes. "There are better was of asking someone to let you help them, Nightmare King. Much better ways than _yanking them to the ground_ and _berating them_ for their insecurities."

The Fundament is silent for a moment, and he has to restrain himself from snapping in response, already feeling a flare of irritation in his chest. “He acted like an infant, Enkay. A squirming, kicking child that throws a fit in the dirt when things don’t go their way. It’s not the behavior a God should have in such a serious situation, when he and all the lives around him could be in peril, including ours. Refusing the Heart, refusing us, is something he cannot avoid, and he has to suck it up and take it. It is inevitable.”

"Well, maybe - and I mean this in the most sincere and critical way, not in any malicious context - _maybe_ you need to realize that children sometimes have better, newer ideas than adults." He meets the Nightmare King's gaze, hiding shaking hands behind sharp gestures. "I don't mean in relation to hiding from us. He shouldn't be doing that and I am entire with you _on that point,_ but he's right that you can't force him into this. The more you try to scare him into it, the more you force your will over his, the more he will fight it and the less he'll want to know of it. You're making yourself his _enemy,_ not a friend, and definitely not someone he can talk to."

The Fundament was silent for a moment, eyes turned down to the floor, puzzling over the words that had been said. “...He doesn’t even seem to understand what risks he’s taking though. Risks that could doom him, the clan, all of us, especially you, the one person he cares about the most.” He can’t help but let out a bitter chuckle at that. “The person who scarred him for life by dying in front of him.”

Enkay's frown deepens. "The thing _I'm_ worried about that you haven't even considered is _why_ he's making these risks. I figured it out at a very young age what would happen if I refused the memories. Dolor did as well, and Kana and dozens of others, probably the majority of us." He puts a hand on the Fundament's shoulder. "Grimm isn't stupid. And if you're going to talk to him now, after what you said earlier..." Enkay feels his eyes glow as his hand tenses on his shoulder. "Then you better apologize to my son, Nightmare King. _And_ ask him what's wrong."

Silence fills the air for a long, long moment, and he lets out a sigh. Perhaps he too ought to start listening to the words that were given to him as well, from the King as well as the spirits living within his body. “....Very well.”

••••

Grimm's room was not one of typical organization. There were shelves on the walls, lined with foreign flags and knives and necklaces that weren't his. There were even a few helmets, but all of these were covered by strange, halfhearted arrangements of books, small musical instruments, and the occasional article of clothing strewn haphazardly across the unit. The floor was covered in similar material, though sheets of music outnumbered almost everything else. A piano was shoved into one corner of the room, still open from whenever he had last played, and across from it was a tall hammock stocked with heavy quilts and fluffy blankets. A single arm hung over the edge, fingers loosely holding a violin and bow which dangle inches from the ground. The tips of two horns peek from beneath the fabrics, but little else of the god could be seen.

The silence that filled the room was, for the most part, comforting. No one trying to talk to him, no one bothering him while he tried to rest, just himself, alone with his thoughts. He lets a claw slide over one of the strings of the violin, idly, feeling the vibrations in his fingers as he stared up towards the ceiling, letting his mind wander around aimlessly in the nothingness that he desired to obtain. He didn’t want to talk to anyone right now. He didn’t want to _deal_ with anyone right now. Not his Troupe, not the Heart, not even the King himself. He just wanted to be left alone. Alone, so he could recover from the day.

“ **Hello, my sweetest brother. How nice to see that you still have your hobbies. I always loved watching you collect things. It’s nice to know that you’re still you, no matter how many ages has passed.** ”

His claws pause over his violin. This voice... Not one of his own. It took him a moment to crawl out of his own mind and recognize it as the same voice that had issued from that infected bug in the King's labs. He wonders, for  moment, how she had found him, then sighs and sinks further into the recesses of blankets piled on top of him. "In case you didn't notice, I have _Do Not Disturb_ signs on all my doors and winds. Please leave."

“ **Ohohohoh...Is that any way to treat me, dear? Come on now, you know how much you’ve missed me ever since I died. I know I’ve missed you. Let me have a look at you, please. I want to see how much you’ve grown since I last saw you. You always keep changing your looks, it’s hard for me to keep track!** ” 

The voice lets out a hearty, jubilant laugh, ringing like bells through the air, and a warm presence manifests within the room, sending a wave of calm, pleasant heat over Grimm’s body where he laid. The air vaguely smelled like vanilla and sugar.

Grimm always hated vanilla.

"I'm not who you think I am, and I'm not in the mood." There's a moment of silence and the presence doesn't leave. He sighs. "You killed my father last time we met. I don't want to talk."

“ **Oh, come now, don’t be like that. I just want to have a little conversations you and I. I do regret how terribly out of hand things became the last time we met, I really do. Trust my word when I said I would have tried to find you and apologize for what I had done all those years ago. But I couldn’t. Because I died.** ” 

There was a beat of silence, and a warm limb, a tendril that feels akin to feathers, rests on his shoulder. The voice is soft, dripping with sorrow and regret. “ **I never wanted to hurt you. I never wanted to hurt you at all. But I did, and I’ve regretted it ever since. All I want to do now is give the apology that you deserve. Please, brother. All I ask for is to talk.** ”

He scowls as the tendril touches him, and as soon as she pauses again, he drops his violin and twirls his bow to snag the tendril and pull it away. "You didn't _just_ hurt him, you killed him. And tortured him before that, not that you'd admit it."

There was a moment of stunned silence, before the voice speaks up again, sounding hurt, almost offended. “ **Tortured? Is that what you really think I did? I wanted to keep you safe, brother. My home, my kingdom, it was wrought with my Essence, covered in it. It would’ve surely brought you harm were it not for my own magic. It was for your safety.** ” 

There was another pause. “ **Please don’t turn this into another fight. Please. Just let me talk to you. At least look me in the eyes when you do. Please. I just want to see you again...I missed you.** ” Her voice grows hoarse, and the pleasant heat starts to grow dim, laden with sorrow. “ **I missed you so much.** ”

Grimm felt no sympathy for Radiance, and felt even less obliged to offer any at such a display. He could tell in how she referred to him that she was _still_ in denial of the separate existences of the Nightmare King's reincarnations. She was blatantly refusing to acknowledge the truth. But he knew enough to tell this would only get worse if he did nothing. He sighs heavily and pushes himself upright, the blankets falling away from his chin. He looks her in the eyes, his own gaze guarded, but he can't hide the tiredness coating him.

"What do you want?"

The form he had written into his memory, the form of the woman who had killed his father, was so different from the body that stood before him now, and yet at the same time, so similar. The same bright yellow eyes, fluffy fur, and great, towering crown was all there, all accounted for, burned deep into his nightmares for years that he could not hope to count. Where her arms were once present, sharp talons decorated in jewels of glimmering gold, now were a whole array of large, feathery tendrils, twitching and moving and swaying like the arms of the great Teacher that accompanied the King and Queen through his camp grounds. Her legs were shaped in an almost blade-like manner, and the lovely, beautiful wings that once adorned her back were now gone. 

Her eyes, the most expressive part of her body, curled upwards in a pantomime of a soft, hesitant smile. “ **...I wanted to see you. I wanted to apologize. I know words probably mean nothing, but I’m willing to say them in any way I can to show you how much I regret how things ended. I just want to love you again, brother. I don’t want this feud to end in anymore bloodshed.** ” Her tendrils that replaces her left arm slowly drift forwards to rest on his shoulder, to stroke his cheek, soft, tender, radiating with a warmth that gave him the feeling of basking in the sun’s rays on a smooth sandy beach.

He pushes the kind touches away, softer than before. "I'm not much in the mood for soft gestures. I'm not really in the mood to be talking to anyone, so..." There was something like an apology huddling on his tongue, and he didn't know why it was there. He sighs and rubs his face. "'This feud...' Gghh..." Why did she have to come now? How did she even get here? He's too exhausted to deal with this.

Concern came up in her bright, burning eyes, and she couldn’t help but frown. “ **You seem tired, brother, very tired indeed. You poor soul, you’ve been driving yourself down to the bones, haven’t you?** ” Her tendrils all move in, and slowly, slowly, Grimm feels himself being slowly pulled from the hammock, only to find himself being gently held against her chest, the fluffy down of her feathers feeling as if he was resting against a cloud, her tendrils resting against his back.

Grimm tenses as soon as he feels himself move, and tenses further when he's held against Radiance's chest. He scowls and tries pushing her tendrils away. "What are you doing?"

Her expression fills with surprise, with shock, which quickly turned into that of mild emotional pain. “ **I’m hugging you...Am I not allowed to hug my own brother, who I seek to make amends with?** ”

"Guh." It was almost like dealing with one of those sycophantic fans, just without the strange idealism of his worse half. The thought plucks an idea that he doesn't particularly like. He shoves the thought aside. "I'm just not in a good mood. Ignore me."

“ **I understand.** ” Her expression mellows out into a more melancholic look, carrying an emotional weight Grimm could not see. She doesn’t make anymore moves, just lets him rest against her chest. All is silent for a moment. “ **...I must have caused you so much pain back then. I know I did. It was...horrible of me, and I realize that now. Which is why I want to make it up to you. I want another chance. I want to be forgiven. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.** ” She sniffs, and a tear wells up in her eye, one that is quickly absorbed by her feathers.

Grimm looks away from the sight, unsure how to take it. She was crying? Over killing Enkay? What was this really about? She couldn't possibly feel that bad about it. Not when she willingly put dreamcatchers on Enkay and dozens of others. He shifts slightly. "Look... if you want to be forgiven, then... you have to change, right?" What the hell was he saying? Why was he even talking to her? Gods, this was so weird.

She looks down at him, blinking once, twice, before she smiles, a sight that seemed both serene and dripping with sorrow. “ **Of course, brother. Of course. I’ll change. I’d change everything, just for you.** ” 

There was another moment of silence, before she looks down towards him again, and she looks almost unsure. “ **...Do you....Do you remember what it was like to die?** ”

Change _everything...?_ His expression contorts for a moment, then snaps back into a scowl at the question. "No, and even if I did, I wouldn't tell you. _You_ were the one to kill me, remember?"

She looks away for a moment, nodding softly to herself, as if barely hearing his response. When she spoke next, it was slow, almost hesitant, as if looking back on the memories was something she’d rather not do. **“I’m glad you don’t, that you were spared of it all....I now know what it feels like to die, and it haunts me. It’s...ruined me.”** The tendrils not resting on Grimm’s back curl and uncurl in a manner that resembled unease, and her eyes gained a haunted look. 

 **“All I remember was the pain. The pain, as that vile Wyrm stood atop my body and plunged his blades into my heart. Visceral, blinding agony as I felt my flesh give way and my blood pour out onto the rocks beneath me. Pain, and then...darkness. Consuming, maddening, relentless darkness. No matter how hard I tried to shout or scream, none heard me. It was just me, me, and the Abyss. My mind....It was empty. Empty of everything, as if I were asleep, but present for every single second. I could no longer hear you, hear your voice. You were gone. My moths, my precious, precious moths....They were silent. They were gone too. They…** **_abandoned_ ** **me.”**

The tears well up again, and now they fall from her eyes, harder now, golden tears that shone as brightly as her own great light. **“I was alone. So completely, utterly alone for...I don’t even know how long. When I finally came back, I found myself within my realm, but I was different. I wasn’t the same. I was…** **_this_ ** **.”** She lifts up some tendrils in example.

 _That explains the different appearance…_ He couldn't remember Enkay dying, at least, not through his eyes, but he could remember waking up. The confusion, the disorientation. The emptiness that only felt empty because he knew, somehow, that he was missing pieces. He shifts a little, trying to sit upright in the awkward hold he was in. "Wait, wait. Did you have all your memories? When you woke up? Or did they all come back over time?"

She pauses for a moment, her tendrils going slack to allow him to move, and it takes a moment for her to respond. **“I...I’m not sure. Everything was so foggy. It...It still is, somewhat. I think they came back gradually. And when they finally did...I realized where I was. Or, rather, I realized what had happened....and what I needed to do.”** She wipes away her tears, looking down towards the floor for a moment. **“Why do you ask?”**

"It just... sounds familiar." He frowns. "What do you mean by realizing what you needed to do?"

She’s silent again, for a moment, and her expression turns grim. **“...I needed to find a way out. Out of my realm, the realm that keeps me chained, shackled, confined. Once I take over the Wyrm’s kingdom and topple him from his throne, I can find a way to free myself. Then, and only then will I be able to come back from the dead. Only then will I be free.”** She glances towards him, frowning softly. **“That is how I intend to change, brother. Once I come back from the place that holds me captive, we can start anew. Start all over. Make a grander kingdom, a better kingdom, together, where we don’t have to fight and we can live together, side by side, just like how we used to.”**

"I..." He stares, almost uncomprehendingly, the words too much and too nonsensical for him to formulate a coherent thought. She thought she had to kill the King in order to resurrect herself? And then... Be friends with him? Was that what all this was about? She wanted to be friends with him? Live with him? She was so obsessed with the past, with his past self, that all she could see in the future was the past itself. No matter the cost.

Grimm suddenly became aware of how many eggshells he was walking around. He recalled her actions while controlling the infected bugs. The hate and anger and violence there. He doubted she could do any damage here, in his own realm, but she was still holding onto him, unwilling to let him go, and he could tell how quickly things could go wrong. How many locks had he put on his door again?

"Radiance, I... What if...." He puts a hand on one of her tendrils, but the words fizzle out on his tongue.

That gets her to chuckle, softly. “ **Oh, brother, you needn’t be so formal. Why bother calling me by the name the mortals gave me?** ” Her eyes flicker over his features for a moment, and her grin fades. “ **...You’re trembling.** ”

"I just..." He looks down. This shouldn't be so difficult. "I've recently decided to take a less... combative approach to life. I don't know if I would want you to - to take over another's kingdom. Perhaps we could find another way for you to... change..."

She’s silent, for a long, long moment, before she suddenly stands and lets go, sending Grimm toppling to the floor, her expression contorted with a growing rage, a growing anger. “ **No. No, never. Never! I will never let that foul Wyrm remain after what he did to me! After what he did to my kingdom! After what he made me go through! How can you even say that, brother?! How can you even think of leaving my killer alive?! How...How can you think of** **_helping_ ** **him?!** ”

He thumps comically into a pile of pillows left under his hammock and pushes himself upright. "Well, it's not like you're _my_ killer, now are you?"

“ **That’s different! That’s different and you know it! You know what I am, brother?! I’m** **_DEAD_ ** **! Dead and gone and unless I do something, I can never come back! While you, you, have always died! Always! Over and over, without fail, you die! You die and leave me behind, again and again, left to care for you and love you while you struggle to even remember who I am!** ”

He stares at her for a long moment, disgust creeping into his expression. "You... killed Enkay because you thought I'd come back? That's - that's not how it works at all! I nearly died for real! I don't even know how I'm alive right now!"

Her expression contorts with fury, and her tendrils writhe, her frame becoming tinged with bright light. “ **I didn’t** **_think_ ** **! I KNEW! I KNEW YOU’D COME BACK, BROTHER! YOU ALWAYS DO! EVERY TIME YOU DIE, EVERY SINGLE TIME, YOU FIND A WAY TO COME BACK! YOU FIND A WAY TO REVIVE YOURSELF FROM THE DEAD, WHILE I AM LEFT ALONE, DOOMED TO NEVER FOLLOW IN YOUR FOOTSTEPS, FOREVER SEPARATED FROM YOU, WHEN WE HAD BOTH SWORN TO BE TOGETHER FOREVER!** ”

Even amongst her outrage, tears bubble upwards and spill. “ **Do you even know what that’s like?! To know that the person you love most in the world could suddenly be ripped from your arms, their bodies torn to pieces, ruined, their blood spilling the ground at any moment, only to have them suddenly rise from the dead, over and over again, without fail?! And every single time!** ** _Every!_** **_Single!_** **_Time!_** **You have to tell them who you are, have to tell them that you don’t need to be feared, that you can keep them safe, only to have them abandon you, over and over again, without ever explaining** ** _why_** **?! Do you know what that feels like?! Can you even comprehend it?! I can! I know! I know, because I see it, every damn time I look at you, brother! That’s what you’ve done to me! You did this! You did this to me!** ”

"What I've done to you?" He finally stands, hands clenched and shaking, but doesn't step toward her. "You have no idea the delicate process I have to undergo every time I die, the requirements I need to fulfill in order to come back! When Enkay died, the majority of those requirements _were not_ filled. You saw the pyre that day. That wasn't _normal,_ Radiance. That was some - some butchered failsafe mechanism no one had planned for! Do you hear my voice, Radiance? Can you hear it? This is what _you_ have done." He holds his throat, voice growing more raspy with the overflow of emotions. "I can never sing again, Radiance! I can never sing like Enkay did, or the one before them, or before them, or any of them. I can't _remember_ what I've gone through, what Enkay could remember, because _you_ killed him! And I saw you kill him, and I can't _unsee it,_ and I'm different now, but _you-!_ "

He takes a breath, shaking and fighting back his own tears. "Everyone. _Everyone_ sees me as Enkay. As the Nightmare King. As someone I am _not._ I'm not _them,_ Radiance. I never will be. The Nightmare King as you knew him will never come back because _none of us are him!_ When we die, we _die._ This - this..." He flails his hands. "This 'resurrection' bullshit is just some silly cover, the closest word any language has to what we go through, and guess what? I'm tired of it too! I hate not knowing people I should know, and relearning things I already learned, and having bloody _panic attacks_ when I finally _do_ remember something!"

"Do you really think I like _this?_ " He's crying now, and he hates himself for it, because _she_ isn't the one he should be telling this too. "Do you really think I like forgetting who I am, abandoning _myself_ and leaving _myself_ alone, surrounded by unfamiliar people with ungodly expectations and boundless knowledge and entire spectrums of ideals and bonds and flaws and you name it!? I can't remember what dying feels like because I can tell how _bitter_ and _done_ my soul is with remembering!"

 She froze as he wept. She felt a part of herself chill, right down to the bone, at the sight of the tears that glisten as they slide down his cheeks. She always knew what to tell from watching his face. It was like reading a book to her, and right now, the only words that were forming in that book was nothing but one long, unending scream, of agony, suffering, pain, unrelenting, unceasing. It shook her, rattled her to her core, and within an instant, the rage that had built up in her body was gone, leaving only an emptiness, numb, paralyzed against the storm she was now witnessing finally come to pass. She could feel tears soaking into her fur. She could feel her limbs trembling, the rage and bitter hatred that she had poured into herself begin to dissolve, and she can’t help herself as the words slip free. 

 “ **...Then why don’t you just stop?** ”

 "I... I...?" He stares at her, again confused, again unable to understand. Just stop? When he now has a Child, a beloved Child with such a future ahead of themself, so bubbly and kind? When he hadn't ever quite managed to put all his feelings into words like these because there had never been anyone he could tell without being overheard, without expecting some kind of punishment and rebuke to befall him? His lungs tighten, refusing to build enough oxygen to form the necessary words.

As the silence fills the air, something in the Radiance’s gaze tightens, hardens, and though her tears continue to run, her voice turns rough, fierce, rumbling through his bones like an earthquake. “ **You don’t even know, do you? You’re deluding yourself into thinking you have to do this, have to commit yourself to ritualistic slaughter just so you can continue existing. You think you need to kill yourself so you can keep on living.** ” 

She almost looks appalled, creeping towards horrified, and she steps forward, tendrils reaching out to lift his chin upwards to look him in the eye. “ **You poor, poor fool. This is why you need me, brother. This is why I need to come back.** ” 

Her tendrils slowly wrap around his shoulders. 

“ **Please, help me. Help me come back, and I can fix this. I’ll do whatever I can, I’ll do whatever you want me to, just help me come back so I can fix this! Fix you! Fix you so you don’t have to do this anymore! Fix you so you won’t have to kill yourself anymore!** ”

Around his waist. His neck. His wrists. She’s shaking him. 

“ **We can stop it! We can stop this cycle, I know we can! Please! PLEASE, BROTHER! JUST LISTEN TO ME!** ”

He's shaking his head, shaking from horns to toes, and his breathing is picking up as she looms over him. No. No, that was the _worst_ idea she could possibly have. She had no idea what could happen if she did that. _He_ barely had a clue! "Let - let go of me-"

“ **NO! I’M SUPPOSED TO BE THERE FOR YOU! I’M SUPPOSED TO TAKE CARE OF YOU! WE TAKE CARE OF EACH OTHER, AND WE STAY TOGETHER NO MATTER WHAT! YOU PROMISED ME! WE BOTH PROMISED!** ”

Promised? Promised what? He starts wheezing, falling against her as her arms pull at him. He tugs at the chords around his wrist, muttering some mantra under his breath as if that would help. Banging comes from the door and he reflexively bursts into flames, smacking the tendrils away from himself and falling to the ground, gasping for air.

There was a loud scream of pain, of anger, of absolute _fury_ , and just when it reaches it’s peak, it’s gone entirely. The next thing he realizes, dimly, is a pure red figure crouched over him, eyes wide with horror, visibly trembling, his mouth moving, but no noise coming through.

"I'm fine," he says, or tries to say. He can't quite tell if he was speaking or merely thinking at this point. He starts pushing himself upright, and the figure helps, and he can't help but take hold of their arms and lean into them. Some sense of familiarity, of understanding, was there, and the tears still in his eyes burned again. "I-I'm fine."

The door to his room lay broken and warped on the ground, the locks he had placed cleaved in two and melting into the carpeted flooring. Burnt feathers lay tattered on the ground, singed and burned. 

 The Radiance was nowhere to be seen.


End file.
